


[I Have Become] Comfortably Numb

by QueerCanary (queercanary)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of death/dying, Disreality, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mental Health Issues, Most Fluff is Childhood Memory, Oh my god so much angst, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Slight fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 21,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25137352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercanary/pseuds/QueerCanary
Summary: Sara Lance has been given back her soul. Coming back to life isn't exactly easy, though.In which Sara has a rough time after her resurrection.Mature for dark themes (mental health and general well-being) and violence (self and others).Each Chapter Will Be Tagged (in its notes) with specifics for TW's.
Comments: 54
Kudos: 42





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a prologue and also proves that I am working on a project I swear. Right now i've got a hundred little snippetes begging to be connected-- most of this is written and finished and all that good stuff. I am just refining it right now.  
> I refuse to believe that Sara was literally brought back from the dead and was completely fine with no emotional toll. Also, Arrow doesn't let it's "side" characters show emotions and also appear in more than three scenes. And Sara Lance is my favorite character (is it that obvious?), here we go!  
> As always, I'll add tags/characters if anything changes. Tag suggestions (for example- a trigger I missed or something) always encouraged!
> 
> Fic Title: Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd)

Warmth. That was the first sensation that registered in Sara’s mind.

The second was pressure, arms being wrapped tightly around her.

The third was emptiness. A void.

Sara blinked, confused. Laurel and her father were holding her tightly, so tightly it almost hurt.

“Oh god, Sara.” Laurel mumbled into her hair.

She didn’t remember sitting up, but she was. Sara realized she didn’t remember waking up either. All she could remember was darkness.

Sara felt so disoriented, like she was swimming deep underwater and couldn’t figure out which way was up. Where was she? What was happening?

Slowly, things began to come into focus. She registered Diggle, fingers interlaced and pressed tightly over his mouth, as if he was fighting tears. An exhausted looking Oliver clutching a terrified looking Felicity. A roughed-up Thea grinning that lopsided grin of hers. A strange blonde man in a trench coat. Laurel clutching at her sobbing, her father holding both of them as tightly as he could.

Sara felt herself struggling for breath. All the little sounds and smells and sensations felt like a wave crashing into her, pulling her down into watery depths, drowning her. She knew that she should feel comforted, safe. Her family surrounded her, holding her closely. All that Sara wanted was to pull away, to yell at them to stop it, stop touching her, leave her alone.

Sara didn’t feel comfort. All she felt was emptiness.


	2. It's Empty in the Valley of Your Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Cave (Mumford & Sons)  
> (Titles are mostly just a vibe for this story lol)

“Where am I?” Sara asked weakly.

“In the new Arrow lair.” Laurel replied. Sara looked around at her surroundings, baffled.

Everything felt so… overwhelming. Sara just wanted to crawl up and go to sleep.

Sara side-eyed the stranger as Laurel helped her to stand. “John Constantine.” He supplied, holding out his hand. His British lilt surprised her.

Sara glanced at the proffered hand suspiciously and the Brit grunted, sneaking it back into his coat pocket with a wry grin. “Fair enough, love. I probably wouldn’t be takin’ my hand if I was you either.” Oliver shared a look with the man.

“I’ll show you out.” John nodded, understanding that Oliver was signaling to speak in private.

Sara stood, looking blankly around the new space, taking everything and nothing in. The large bank of computer monitors and all it's accompanying tech. The row of glass gases with leather-clad mannequins. Room-like off shoots from the central 'stage' they were standing on now. Rows of weapons. A table full of tech. Everything was so different, so big.

Apparently, Oliver had upgraded and expanded his operation.

Quentin stood hovering behind her shoulder while Laurel maintained a steady grip on her arm as Sara looked around the room. Sara jerked away from the touch without sparing a glance to Laurel. He bit his lip, gaze falling to the ground, upset by her vehement rejection of connection with him and Laurel. Sara eyed everyone with suspicion, flinching away from any touch offered by people who should have been her friends, her family.

Felicity placed a reassuring hand on Quentin’s arm, drawing him away. Thea followed, trying to avoid crowding the obviously anxious woman. She remembered how much panic she had felt waking up with a bunch of people she couldn't immediately recognize hovering around her. 

“I’m sure she’s just disoriented.” Felicity said quietly, hand still resting on his forearm. “Confused. Now that she’s got her soul back, she just needs time to readjust. I mean, if you woke up in such a strange place with no idea or memory of how you got there, you'd be really confused too.” 

Thea nodded. “It took me time. It’s really confusing: it’s like when you pass out and it takes you a minute to reorient yourself. Only Sara was passed out for more than a year, so it takes a little bit longer than 60 seconds to get those bearings back.”

Quentin pursed his lips and nodded, a rough jerking motion. He fought his own tears as he glanced over at Laurel, Sara, and Diggle. He ran his hand roughly over his mouth, observing his daughter: she looked so small and so naked, the corset of her Black Canary uniform barely covering anything. Why hadn’t she been buried with her jacket, for Christ sakes? Even without her soul, she had been cold, grabbing the first cover she could find. She must be freezing now, Quentin agonized, feeling the chill of the air-conditioning in the hideout tugging at his own skin.

He just wanted to wrap his daughter in a tight hug, the kind he used to give when she was a kid who skinned her knee, the kind you use to convince both the crying child _and_ yourself that everything is okay. But he couldn’t get the feel of her cold skin under his hands, the way she was trembling like a little frightened chihuahua, out of his mind.

She was shaking right now, Quentin noticed, although he couldn’t tell if it was from chill or from fear.

In his heart, he knew the answer was probably a little bit of both.


	3. Don't Want to Let You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !Content Warning: This Scene turns into a panic attack that involves disreality! I don't think it's extremely vivid but just in case :)
> 
> Title: Demon (Imagine Dragons)

Sara felt herself drooping. “Tired?” Diggle asked kindly.

“Yeah. Exhausted.” Sara nodded and found herself yawning.

Laurel placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder and Sara flinched. Diggle and Laurel traded a worried look.

“Lets get you cleaned up, a shower and some fresh clothes. Then we can get you some good rest. You’ll feel much better then.” Laurel assured her. Sara nodded wearily. Laurel tugged very gently at her arm, signaling Sara to move. She let Laurel lead her away slowly, even though all she really wanted was for everybody to stop touching her and talking to her and looking at her. Laurel spared one last glance over her shoulder. “Thank you, Diggle. You should go home to your family: it’s late.” Diggle nodded, his smile trying to be reassuring. 

“The new Arrow Cave comes with some amenities.” She chirped lightly as she led Sara to a corner. “Shower and everything!” Sara didn’t respond; just allowed Laurel to lead her by the arm into the room addition.

“Do you want… help… or…” Laurel asked, hand hovering lightly over the laces to her corset.

Sara shook her head, eyes not drifting from the mirror. Laurel nodded, sticking her hands in the pockets of her jeans to keep herself from touching Sara: the contact obviously upset the woman. “I’ll get some clean clothes for you and leave them right outside the door, okay?” Laurel pursed her lips with a small nod when Sara didn't respond or even show a signal that she had hear her sister. She turned the knob in the shower, struggling with what to do and how to help. “It can take a few minutes to get warm.”

Sara stood stock-still, breath shallow and gaze fixed. Laurel furrowed her brow before gently letting herself out of the bathroom, closing the door as quietly as she could.

Sara stood transfixed by the reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair was matted and hung limply around her shoulders. Her face was pale, her lips bloodless and cracked. She drifted closer to the mirror, hand reaching up to touch the reflection. Her fingers hesitantly drifted to her face, cupping her own cheek. It felt just like the mirror. She wasn’t sure if she was actually touching her face or the smooth glass, the image making her head spin. She blinked and her fingers were dancing across the reflection, but her skin prickled as if she was touching her own face. She blinked again and found that she was.

The mirror began to fog over, her image becoming indistinct. Sara felt like she was floating, like she was back in the North China Sea floating alone and directionless on the raft.

As if on instinct, Sara leaned forward, gripping the edges of the sink basin so tightly that her bloody knuckles whitened, trying to ground herself in the growing haze. Weakly, she looked down: bright, angry red marks circled her wrists--as if she had been kept in shackles--and all of her knuckles were split open and weeping.

Sara felt herself gasping for breath, leaning heavily on the sink basin. The heat didn’t touch her, but the moist air felt heavy on her skin. The water in the shower fell with the roar of a waterfall, competing with her heartbeat and the ragged sounds of her shallow breaths. Was she even breathing? How would she know?

She looked up from her hands, making eye contact with herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were now bright red and she jumped in surprise when her fingers met wetness on her cheeks. Her reflection was also weeping, heavy droplets of condensation running down the surface, smearing detail and color.

When she had let go of the sink to touch her cheeks, she had lost her anchor point. She was drifting through hazy, heavy space, reaching frantically for something to hold on to. She felt a rush of panic when her fingers slipped.

Anger blossomed in her chest: the mirror was resisting her, it was playing with her, pushing her away so she wouldn’t be able to hold on. It was toying with her. She lashed out at it, bloody fist connecting with the slippery surface. The images reflected on the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces, tumbling from their frame as Sara scrambled backward, nails scrabbling across the smooth skin of her cheeks, tearing, frantically checking for cracks.

Her back collided with the shower door with a bang that seemed to echo around the already roaring room. With a yell, Sara squeezed her eyes shut, clamping her hands over her ears as she slid down the surface to the ground. She rocked back and forth, sobs ripping her chest apart like the claws of a tiger.

Every sound and sensation roared through her body, tearing her apart piece by piece, devouring her. She couldn’t hear herself screaming and crying. She couldn’t hear Laurel’s worried knocking, or her bursting into the bathroom.

Sara was drifting, untethered and untetherable.


	4. I Am Hell Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !Potential Content Warning: Tail end of a panic attack but Sara stays pretty out of it. 
> 
> Title: Demon (Imagine Dragons)

Sara snapped back with Laurel’s concerned face hovering above her, her hands stroking and touching, her soft voice mumbling reassurances. Sara felt like Laurel was taking a cheese grater to every nerve in her body. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t catch her breath to make a single sound.

“It’s okay, Sara. Take a deep breath, breathe with me.” Laurel whispered, holding Sara’s face tight her hands, forcing the younger woman to make eye contact.

Oliver slid into the bathroom quietly, propping the door open before switching off the water of the shower. He surveyed the bloody glass scattered across the floor, a few small slivers still wedged in Sara’s hand, before moving out of the room to collect gauze and tweezers.

Everyone else had gone home after Laurel had assured them that Sara just needed rest and that crowding her would probably only make her more disoriented and anxious. Even Quentin had been coaxed to retire for the evening, persuaded that Laurel was right that Sara would probably draw closest to her elder sister for comfort in that moment. Steady Oliver was the only one who had remained behind. Just in case.

Laurel was glad for the privacy. She knew that the two people Sara probably trusted most-- her sister and Oliver—were the only ones there, the ones tending to her. No prying eyes to make Sara even more skittish or bodies to crowd her in. No one else to bear witness to her terrified screams. No one else Sara would have to face later. 

Sara’s icy blue eyes were brimming with terror, sweeping around the room as she gasped frantically for breath. Laurel stared unwaveringly into those eyes. “It’s okay, Sara. Breath with me. In.” Laurel exaggerated the sounds of her breath, noisily sucking air in before blowing it out, “Out.” Sara shudderingly mimicked her sister, tiny whimpers escaping her lips unconsciously, unbidden, unwanted.

Laurel nodded encouragingly, thumb tracing Sara’s jaw. She had no way of knowing that the touch was making everything so much worse.

Sara began to drift back into herself, resenting the whines that oozed out of her lips like the blood from her fresh cuts and irritated knuckles.

“Keep breathing with me, Sara.” Laurel whispered, nearly breathless herself. “That’s it, that’s it. You’re doing so good.” Laurel hoped the fear she felt wasn’t showing in her eyes as she soothed her trembling sister. Sara felt so small and fragile. It frightened Laurel beyond anything she had ever felt before.

What if Sara wasn’t okay? She had her soul back, but what if that soul was damaged beyond what repairs a loving sister was capable of making?

Sara felt hands gently pulling her to her feet, leading her from the bathroom to sit slowly on the steps. Laurel sat a step lower than her sister, hand lightly resting on Sara’s knee, fresh clothes in her lap. Sara was staring into the distance, not even acknowledging the touch or words of Laurel.

Oliver appeared and sat gently next to the frightened woman,moving with exaggerated motions. He took her hand and began to gently remove the glass from the mirror with tweezers, pulling as lightly as he could and moving slowly as he was capable. Sara's hand looked so painfully tiny his large one, like a little broken bird. He tenderly wrapped both of her hands, settling one before the other in the small cradle of her lap.

Laurel stood, removing a rubber band from her wrist, pulling the tangled dirty mass of blonde hair into a loose bun. “We’ll brush this out later, when you feel better, okay Sara?” Sara didn’t respond, staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused. 

“I’ll take her back to my apartment, put her in bed.” Laurel murmured, unsure what else to do or say.

Oliver nodded gravely before placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Laurel flashed a tight-lipped smile before pulling out from under his hand. She bent and gently pulled Sara back to her feet by her forearm. Sara didn't even blink, letting her sister move and position her with gentle tugs, like a doll. Laurel shivered at the thought.

Oliver tucked his hands back in his pockets awkwardly and watched Laurel lead her vacant-demeanored little sister from the bunker, feeling a sting when Laurel herself had ducked away from his touch.

Laurel didn’t really want to be comforted at that moment: she had done this to her sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, kind of weird allusion to the Doll Maker from Season 2 because I like to think I'm clever. (Quentin mentions that the case of the doll maker originally drove him to drink because it happened so soon after the Gambit sank, and he could only see Sara in the victims.)


	5. I'm Trying Not To Face What I've Done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a wonderful deleted scene on Youtube from 4x5 and had to write with it here. Its a beautiful scene and shouldn't have been deleted in favor of whatever Olicity Drama was going on or whatever.
> 
> (Title: Hopeless Opus-- Imagine Dragons)

Sara didn’t remember getting in the car, or Laurel leaning over to buckle her in. She had been floating again. The jangle of Laurel’s keys as she unlocked the front door to her apartment snapped her back to reality.

Laurel remembered too late that her apartment was practically trashed. She opened the door slowly, hoping Sara wouldn’t get triggered into another panic attack. Her sister looked horrible, so exhausted and scared. Laurel desperately wanted to avoid another exhausting episode.

Sara followed Laurel inside weakly, brows furrowing at the sight of the damaged interior. Glass was scattered across the floor, interspersed with random odds and ends.

“I… did all this?” Sara asked, throat tightening. She’d done this… while hunting Thea.

“Yeah.” Laurel replied quietly, not quite sure what to say. She couldn’t lie. Glass crunched under their boots, made even louder by the breathless silence of the moment. “It’s okay. Just… happy someone broke in and didn’t kidnap me.” Laurel tried to lighten the mood, remind Sara that some broken glass and scattered Knick-knacks didn’t matter.

Sara hesitantly moved further into the apartment, eyes flitting around the ruin, guilt tightening its grip on her heart. Laurel tried to keep a fair distance behind Sara, allowing her to take the scene in without feeling crowded.

“How’re you feeling?” Laurel asked hesitantly, trying another tactic to push Sara to remember that she was what mattered, not some stupid furniture. Sara’s brow stayed furrowed, her eyes troubled.

Sara had to physically tear her gaze away from the chaos to look at her sister in the face. Laurel noticed the effort but still felt a small thrill that her sister was actually looking at her, was engaging with her.

“Different.” Sara replied hesitantly. To be honest, she didn’t understand what she was feeling, or how to articulate it. How to articulate anything.  She felt so overwhelmed, and exhaustion and fear made her limbs feel like they were being coated in lead. She stumbled to sit on the edge of the couch.

“Do you remember anything?” Laurel asked hoarsely, part of her terrified that the answer would be  _ yes _ . Sara shook her head as if trying to clear it, trying to collect her thoughts.

“I… remember being shot. I remember falling. I know it sounds strange but I… I remember you holding me.” Laurel’s heart dropped into her stomach with the pain of the memory. She wished she could forget. “And you were crying.” Laurel was on the verge of tears now and she fought them with everything she had.  “Everything before that’s just pieces.” It hit Laurel like a punch to the gut just how small her baby sister was. How lost and… broken… she looked. How confused and terrified she must feel.

Laurel crossed the room slowly, her breath catching in her throat as she went to her knees in front of Sara. She remained rigid, palms on her knees.

“Sara.” Laurel breathed. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure it’ll get better.” Sara replied weakly, trying to reassure her older sister even in this moment.

A sudden surge of anger blossomed in Laurel’s chest, but not at Sara. Never at Sara. It was at herself.  _ She  _ was the big sister,  _ she  _ was the one that was supposed to be looking out for Sara and taking care of her and reassuring her.

“No.” Laurel’s throat began to ache with unshed tears. Her voice was dripiing with them. “No, I mean… I’m so sorry that I did this to you. It was so selfish of me.” Laurel reached up to cradle her sister’s face in her hand. “I’m sorry.” The hand trailed down to rest on one of Sara’s, and she squeezed it lightly. “I’m so sorry.”

Sara looked down at the hands grasping at her own. She slowly brought her other hand to rest feather-light on top of Laurel’s. Laurel’s heart skipped a quick beat: Sara was reciprocating touch. Sara’s eyes flitted up to search her face, confusion and fear and sadness written all over her features. Laurel forced a quick, tight-lipped smile.

“Come on, you should sleep in my bed tonight.” Laurel stood, offering Sara her hand. Sara hesitantly took it and for the first time that night touch didn’t make her skin crawl. She let her big sister gently guide her over the wreckage into her bedroom. “We’ll figure out something for the long-term. Can we get you out of those jeans?”

Sara nodded weakly and Laurel moved to gently undo the buttons and pull the denim down, touching her bare legs as little as physically possible. Sara still flinched as if Laurel had raised a hand to strike her. “Do you want some bottoms?”

“Yes, please.” Sara stepped out of her jeans, trembling.

“Of course.” Laurel nodded with a small smile, trying to reassure her sister. She moved about her room in slow movements, feeling Sara’s weary eyes follow her the whole way. She pulled a pair of plaid pajama bottoms from a drawer. Sara managed to pull them on herself. She lowered herself onto the edge of the bed hesitantly.

“Are you sure?” She whispered. Laurel nodded kindly.

“You could use some comfort.” Laurel cocked her head and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not a big deal for a night.” Sara nodded and hesitantly lowered herself into the bed, resting her head tentatively on the pillow. It hit Laurel how stiff and frightened Sara was. She gently grasped she sheets and slowly pulled them up to Sara’s shoulders before turning to leave slowly.

“Laurel?” Sara’s voice was almost a whimper.

Laurel paused at the door, turning around. Sara had immediately curled up. “Yes? Are you okay?” She asked, fighting rising panic in her chest.

Sara nodded a bit. “Can… can you stay with me until I fall asleep?” Sara bit her lower lip. “And… maybe leave the door open when you leave? I just… I don’t want to be all alone.”

Laurel smiled sadly, turning from the door. She slowly crossed the room. The bed dipped where she sat, curling her knee to sit sideways. “Of course, Sara. I’m right here for you. Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back on this fic! Hopefully for good this time.  
> If you remember my last note, something happened to my computer and I still have no idea what happened but basically everything was deleted. So, so many pages of this work were wiped from existence. And I really debated just... letting this one go. I mean, I lost so much work. Nothing was recoverable.  
>  Would it really be worth it to do all of it again? Is the second re-write ever equally as good as the original, or even comparable?   
> You know, just the regular doubts.  
> But then I decided that I was too much in love with the idea of this fic to give it up. To me, the subject matter of this fic is very important to me in the development of one of my favorite characters. There is so much potential here that I decided to pick this project back up and keep chugging.  
> So, heres to my second try.


	6. Want Back To My Ignorance And Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thea is just casually supporting Sara and we love to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Light Disreality/Disassociation. Also, we talk about issues eating, but the problem is physical (not an Eating Disorder) so I wasn't sure if or how to tag this.
> 
> (Title: Blow Me One Last Kiss-- Pink)

“I’m sorry, Sara, but I have to get to work.” Laurel announced apologetically.

Sara shrugged. “It’s okay, no big deal.” She hovered at the edge of the counter, surveying her mess.

“Thea… lives here. She’s my roommate now. She was going to come by soon to start cleaning up but if you don’t feel comfortable, I can ask her to stay over longer with Felicity and Oliver.”

Sara shook her head numbly.

“I also didn’t want you to think I don’t trust you.” Laurel said quietly after a minute. Sara’s brow furrowed even further. “Thea’s not coming over to babysit you or anything. If you want the day to yourself, that’s okay and I’ll just tell her.”

Sara’s lips quirked. “Okay. But I think… I think I’m good.”

Laurel smiled tightly and nodded. “Do you want her to just walk in or knock first?”

Sara bit her lip, hating that Thea couldn’t come back to her home and be safe. “For her safety? Probably knock first.”

“Okay. I’m just going to text her that.” Laurel replied, moving to the task slowly. “I have to get going. If you need anything, please,  _ please  _ just let me know.” Sara just nodded, her attention already fading, gaze becoming more distant.

Laurel tried to leave quietly. 

Sara stood again the counter, contemplating the sensation of the solid surface pressing into her ribs. Her hand trailed down, gaze following numbly. She trailed a single finger along the seam where the counter met her body. She leaned back, putting her weight back on her feet again before lifting the corner of her shirt. There was a thick red indentation where she had been pushing herself into the surface with all her body weight. She traced the line with her finger lightly before resting her palm flush against her side. She felt the light flutter of her heartbeat and the gentle pattern of her breathing.

She was startled out of her reverie by a firm knock at the door. “It’s Thea!”. The knob on the door began to turn.

Sara numbly dropped her shirt, her palm feeling empty with the lack of her heartbeat. Suddenly, she wasn’t even completely confident that her heartbeat was real, that it was still there when she wasn’t holding it.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” Thea asked good-naturedly, closing the front door with her hip, both hands occupied by a coffee. The door swung shut with a hearty thump and Sara gasped, jumping, terror written across her face. Thea scrunched her eyebrows in worry. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that.” She remembered how even the littlest things felt so overwhelming to her when she had first been revived: the dull thump of the door probably felt like a jarring slam to Sara.

Sara shrugged. “No worries, I’m fine.”

Thea held out one of the coffees, taking a quick sip of the other. “Dark roast, two sugars?” Sara nodded, her lips twisting. She reached out and haltingly took the cup from the other woman, jerking to avoid touching her fingers.

“It would probably be safest for you if you didn’t touch me.” Sara whispered. “I don’t want to lose control and hurt you again.”

Thea pursed her lips before nodding. “Okay.”

Thea really thought Sara was over-exaggerating with this: the woman’s soul had been returned to her and Thea trusted Sara completely. Although the bloodlust would be worse around Thea—her killer—Thea really didn’t think Sara would hurt her. But then again, Thea had never been in the same room as her killer: she didn’t completely understand what Sara was going through.

“I figured you wouldn’t have eaten and getting a little something into you is probably a good idea.” Thea said, taking another sip of her coffee while Sara hadn’t let the lid touch her lips once. “Have you had anything yet?”

Sara shook her head numbly.

“Liquids are great to start with.” Thea shrugged. “Maybe we can get a smoothie or something for lunch. Get some calories into you.”

When Sara didn’t respond, her gaze still a thousand miles away, Thea plowed on. “Eating was really hard for me at first. I don’t know, maybe because its one of those finer motor skills. Oliver practically had to force feed me my first meal. It was like I had forgotten how to chew and swallow.”  Thea sighed, taking a deep breath. “And I probably shouldn’t be talking about how hard it is.” Thea almost swore she saw the hint of a ghost of a grin on Sara’s face.

“I also thought the caffeine would be a little energy boost. Do you feel tired?”

“Yeah.” Sara nodded. “I slept through the whole night but I just feel so… drained.” The lid drifted lightly in front of her mouth, as if she was psyching herself up to take a sip. “I don’t know if tired is the right word because when I feel tired I feel like I can sleep and feel better. I feel… empty… of energy.”

“I mean, if you think about it, the fact that this was physically possible at all…” Thea trailed off. “When you were resurrected, you didn’t eat or drink for however long that was. On top of your body not taking any nourishment for more than a year. The Pit only does so much for that.”

“It’s weird. It’s like I’m hungry but I’m not, tired but I’m not.”

“Yeah, I think after I came back to understanding everything, I just felt really hungry and sleepy.” Sara drifted the lid by her lips again.

“I feel like if I drink this, I might get sick. Did you get sick?”

“Like, throw up?” Sara nodded weakly and Thea grimaced. “I did a little. But I was gagging and spitting stuff up, not throwing stuff up. I struggled to swallow and some smells made me gag. I guess in hindsight, black coffee doesn’t smell great.”

Sara’s stomach did a small flip as her eyes wandered down to the small hole in the lid. Suddenly, taking a small sip of coffee felt like the equivalent to climbing a mountain. “I don’t even know if it’s the smell. It just feels… wrong.” Sara set the cup down. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I honestly didn’t really expect you to drink but I thought I would offer anyway, just in case.”

“I appreciate the gesture.” Sara’s gaze roamed again. “I know Laurel wants me in bed but… I want to help.”

“Help?”

“I trashed your apartment.” Sara replied in a small voice, gazing ashamedly at the floor. “I need to help.”

Thea took notice of how she used  _ need _ . “Okay.” Thea shrugged her jacket off onto the back of a chair. She moved to the closet, removing a broom and dustpan. “Do you want to sweep up the glass?” Sara nodded, taking the broom gently.

The job seemed to be the easiest facing them and Sara wouldn’t have to stress out about any broken decorations or the proper placement of the various scattered items.

Sara began to sweep the shards from across the floor into small piles, moving lightly and efficiently. The work felt good despite the exhaustion tugging at her limbs. She couldn’t tell if she was moving slowly or not but in that moment it didn’t matter: she was deliberately sweeping and stepping, still light on her feet, reveling in the activity.

Thea paused in her collection and replacing of scattered items, leaning against the wall. “I’m not mad at you, you know.”

“You should be. I attacked you. Put you in the hospital. Then tracked you to the hospital to try again.” Sara didn’t stop sweeping, tiny glass shards clattering together almost musically as she dragged them across the floor.

“And I killed you.” Thea pointed out. “You weren’t in control of yourself.”

“Neither were you.”

Thea snorted. “You were going after your killer. Instinct. I can’t really blame you for that.”

“How did you get in with Malcolm Merlyn anyway?” Sara asked, finally pausing for a moment, broom loose in her hand.

“By being his daughter.” Thea mumbled. Sara raised an eyebrow, but the gesture was listless. “Yeah. Turns out my dad wasn’t really my dad. And after my mom died… I was tired of all the lies and being so weak. So, I asked him to teach me to be strong. And, like Malcolm tends to do, he used me.”

“Used you?”

“Yeah. And you. Ra’s was after him for… everything. Malcolm knew he couldn’t defeat Ra’s, but he believed Oliver could.”

“The only way to get Oliver to go face to face with Ra’s was by using you.”

Thea nodded. “Oliver would do pretty much anything to protect me. So Malcolm drugged me, told me to kill you, filmed me, and told Oliver that if he didn’t take responsibility for killing you, then Malcolm would show Ra’s the video. Oliver tends to get tunnel vision when it comes to me. So he did it.”

Thea paused, looking at Sara. She had expected Sara to be upset, or surprised, or confused, or angry. She had  _ wanted _ Sara to be any of those things: Thea had murdered Sara. They had both been unconsenting pawns in somebody else’s game of chess: a game which neither had even known was being played until it was too late. But Sara was just…. hollow.

“You were just in the right place at the wrong time.”

“That could be the title of my autobiography.” Sara snorted, jolting back into motion.

“You should totally write one.” Thea joked, trying to lighten the mood.

“It would be published in fiction.” Sara pointed out. She bent with the dust pan, hand choking up on the broom for control as she brushed the mound of glass onto the pan. She stood fluidly, balancing the precarious mound easily as she strode into the bathroom, dumping the shards into the trash.

“Probably.” Thea admitted, admiring Sara’s total and easy grace. Thea remembered feeling like she had when she had driven a car for the first time—clumsy, only casually, distantly in control of a giant hulking mass that had the power to kill at any time, with or without her consent. “But that might make it more fun.”

Sara didn’t react much to Thea’s lighthearted conversation attempts. Sara didn’t really react a whole lot lately and Thea could sympathize. She remembered that when she had first come back, her emotions felt… different. Like they needed to be flexed, like old muscles that had been out of use for a while. It was the totality of Sara’s blankness that worried Thea.

But then again, Thea had been comatose. Sara had been dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also yes I completely understand the irony of this opening with the previous closing please don’t come for me.


	7. Don't Know How I Was Getting By Without You Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That scene from 4x6 except with feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have some sensory overload here, just for reference.
> 
> Even though Quentin and Dinah weren’t on great terms I still refuse to believe she wouldn’t have come see him when he died, him being the man she had two daughters with—even if she hated his guts (which I think she doesn’t) she would be there for her daughters, at all times. And she’s completely absent from her daughters life after she frickin magically comes back to life so prepare for a relationship fix-it  
> She doesn’t seem like a bad mother, just a broken one that the writers liked to pretend only casually exists. Dinah Lance deserved better 2k20.  
> Also, did we ever find out the name of Dinah’s new boyfriend? Imma name him Chad don’t mind me. (More important in later chapters just thought I'd bring it up)
> 
> (Title: Where Do You Run-- THe Score)

The phone felt cold against her cheek and her words felt hollow. She was perched on the edge of Laurel’s couch, her sister sitting in a chair across from her while her father bustled behind, busy with something. With Thea and Sara working together, the apartment had been cleaned and put back into living order fairly quickly and easily.

The voice on the other end of the phone should have made her feel something. She didn’t know what you were supposed to feel talking to your mother for the first time since coming back from the dead, but cold probably wasn’t it.

_ “I’m so, so sorry I can’t make it right now, Sara. Work is just…” _

“I know.”

“ _ You know that you’re welcome here at any time. We have a spare room and I’m always here for you, especially right now. You can tell me anything.” _

“I know.”

“ _ I love you so much, Sara.” _

“I love you too, mom. I love you so much.”

“ _ You can call me any time, honey. Any time for any reason, okay?”  _

“Okay. Bye mom.”

“ _ Bye, sweetie. _ ” Sara pulled the phone from her ear, hanging up just as her dad set two steaming mugs on the table.

Sara let herself collapse back into the soft cushions of the couch, hand over her face.  The light from a dozen burning candles were stabbing into her eyes. Her jeans and top chafed against her skin. The couch sagged and grabbed at her. The casual, small taps that Quentin had been making in the kitchen felt like a series of fireworks, pulsing against her eardrums. Everything was so loud and bright and rough and  _ in her face.  _ Sara wanted to scream or cry—she knew that wouldn’t make anything disappear but maybe the crying would distract her brain, give it a break, put everything else onto the proverbial back burner. Maybe the crying would mean she could stop lying about being okay.

Sara wanted to crawl into a ball and go back to sleep again.

“How’d that go?” Quentin asked, standing next to Laurel. He couldn’t imagine what his ex-wife would be feeling at hearing her supposedly-dead daughter’s voice. He probably would have had another heart attack.

“Easier than the last time that mom found out I wasn’t dead.” Sara replied, sitting back up, forcing herself to put on a brave face. Quentin snorted at the lightness and absurdity of her comment but noticed the pain her voice.

Laurel must have realized too because she stood from her seat and moved next to Sara on the couch. Laurel pressed her shoulder lightly against Sara’s, both of her hands clasping tightly on her younger sister’s knee. The gesture almost seemed like Laurel was trying to convince herself that Sara was really sitting there, that the older Lance sister wasn’t in some kind of fever-dream.  Laurel noticed that Sara had her own hands clasped-- as if she was trying to hold onto herself-- hanging in the space between her knees, not meeting Laurel’s hands or concerned look.

Sara raised her hand to squeeze the bridge of her nose, putting pressure on the corner of her eyes, willing herself not to cry. God, everything felt like… so much. Too much.

“Are you okay, honey?” Quentin asked.

_ No.  _ “I’m fine.” Laurel and her father shared another quick look. Sara could tell they weren’t going to accept her answer, so she started speaking slowly. She was desperately trying to conjure the memory up as she talked. “It was just something mom said about how I got lost when I was walking home from school once. And how I promised that I’d always come back.”

Quentin pressed his lips into a tight smile, feeling tears brimming in his own eyes. He had remembered that day: Sara had been in fifth grade and had begged for months to be allowed to walk home alone after school instead of having to walk to the middle school and wait the extra 45 minutes for Laurel.  _ I’m not a baby anymore, daddy! _ She had whined.  _ I know the way! _

And she had—for the first three weeks, Sara walked home all by herself  _ like a grown up! _ and arrived home a whole hour earlier than her sister.

Then one day she hadn’t made it home.  _ She must have had a rough day and decided she wanted Laurel _ Quentin remembered thinking. Then an hour passed, and his older daughter arrived. Alone.

_ I found something cool Sara would like!  _ Laurel had beamed, a weird seed of some kind clutched in her small hand.  _ Is she upstairs? _

Quentin remembered Dinah’s face going white, his own heart dropping like a rock into the pit of his stomach.  _ Sara hasn’t made it home yet.  _ Dinah had been breathless, her mind racing.

When another hour had passed with no sign of the plucky blonde, Quentin and Dinah decided to retrace Sara’s possible steps.

Two hours later, with the November sun slowly slipping over the horizon and streetlamps clicking on, they found her.  Sara was leaning against a tree, not a tear in sight. Sara had never been a crier, even as a baby.  _ In school they said if you are ever lost, you should sit and hug a tree and somebody will come find you _ .

_ That’s when you’re in the forest, silly.  _ Laurel teased, choking back her tears: Sara was safe. Laurel was smiling in relief, but her crinkled cheeks were still moist with her tears of worry.

Dinah had fallen to the ground, pulling her daughter into her tight grip. It almost seemed that she had been more frightened than Sara.  _ I was so worried when you didn’t come back, sweetie _ .

Sara just cocked her head and furrowed her tiny brows, seemingly genuinely perturbed.  _ But I’ll always come home, mommy. _

Quentin blinked out of the memory, movement catching his eye. Laurel brought her hands up to rest one on each shoulder, squeezing lightly to offer comfort. Sara just felt queasy. At the contact and at the gaping hole where that memory should be.

Sara pursed her lips, eyes raw with emotion. “But I can’t remember.”

“You’re probably better off not remembering all the messed-up things our parents did to us anyway.” Laurel joked, unsure how best to respond, silently thrilled when she elicited a slight grin from Sara. Sara was so pretty when she smiled, Laurel thought, fighting the urge to pull her little sister in for a rib-crushing hug.

“Hey, you two turned out perfectly alright.” Quentin protested teasingly. Sara let Laurel bring her closer. Laurel drank in the sensation of holding Sara in her arms, of Sara’s head rested gently against hers for a split second and felt herself smiling.

“More importantly, you’re both home. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”


	8. I Know I'm Worse for Weather But [I Wont Give Up]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara tries, and fails to eat-- a key activity when you're alive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some food weirdness and throwing up in this one, just as a fair warning. Like, food is described kinda weird from a sensory perspective and (as someone who struggles with that) I low key kinda gagged writing it lol.
> 
> (Title: West Coast- Imagine Dragons)

“Eating is just… hard.” Sara whispered, glancing at her sister’s plate. “It almost feels like my body forgot how. Or at the very least, that it still needed to.”

Quentin sat down his fork anxiously. “Is it bad to watch us eat?”

Sara shook her head weakly. “No. I don’t even really… care.” She shrugged lightly. “I don’t care about much, I guess.” The trio sat in slightly uncomfortable silence for a while, the only sound the gentle clattering of silverware on plates.

Laurel knew that Sara needed to eat. She figured that while the pit had restored her for the time she had been dead, she had gone days without letting even a drop of water past her lips. Now that she had her soul back, she needed to make an effort to take care of herself. Sara was already a pretty skinny girl, Laurel thought, eyeing Sara anxiously. She had gone a few days without anything from Nanda Parbat and being chained in the basement. Then Sara had burned thousands of calories rampaging around the city.  She had to be running on empty soon.

“I know I need to eat something.” Sara murmured slowly, as if she had noticed Laurel’s anxious side-eye despite her gaze never leaving the wall opposite her.

“You don’t have to feel embarrassed in front of us.” Laurel supplied. “I watched Dad teach you how to eat the first time, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“Actually.” Quentin smirked to himself. “Sara was eating while you were still bathing yourself in applesauce.”

Sara’s lips almost danced into a slight smirk.

“Something easy?” Quentin asked, gently handing his youngest a bread roll and napkin. Sara nodded but just stared at the roll for a heavy pause.

She picked at the edge of the biscuit before picking it up gingerly and slowly bringing it to her lips. Sara opened her mouth just enough to force the smooshed corner in past her lips, her teeth tearing lightly at the fresh, buttered bread. She closed her mouth, holding the tiny bite on her tongue while she lowered the roll back down to its napkin.

To her families credit, they were at least pretending not to stare, Sara thought wryly as she pushed the chunk to her teeth with the tip of her tongue. She chewed slowly and deliberately, the action feeling foreign to her long-unused jaw.

The piece was now a damp clump of calories relentlessly mashed between her teeth, coating her tongue and cheeks with grit. Still, Sara found herself choking on the broken-down food. Her mouth was flooded with unpleasantly textured saliva and she brushed a knuckle across her lips to make sure she wasn’t drooling. With tremendous effort, her throat finally unclenched enough to let her choke the grainy water down. Sara couldn’t be sure, but she felt like she had let out a squeak of discomfort, betraying the difficulty.

It felt like she had forgotten how to eat, how to swallow. Like her throat was no longer there, her mouth the only passage in and out. She felt a small bloom of satisfaction that she had finally managed to push something down to her aching and hollow stomach, even if it had taken a few minutes and the textures of decaying bread had make her want to gag. What was important was that she hadn’t gagged—these might have been the first actual calories she had managed to stomach.

Quentin shot Laurel a small smile as Sara picked the roll up again and took another small bite. Any progress was progress.

Sara chewed on the next bite equally slowly, focusing on the mechanics and sensations of swallowing. It was gross, but it was going a lot better than her attempt at the coffee Thea had brought, which had left her sputtering and gagging over the kitchen sink. She took a small sip at the ice water in front of her, swishing the liquid to clear her mouth of the hot saliva. A liquid would probably have been a better choice but Sara was determined to make this happen either way.

She had started to shake after sweeping, even the simple task an exertion to her starved body, feeling weak on her feet as she ran out of energy. Sara was desperate for anything. A few mouth-warm crumbs of bread was better than nothing. She took another bite.

Even though food hadn’t been plentiful on Lian Yu, she never remembered feeling quite this weak. She remembered days when the mere act of waking up felt like it had sapped her strength, when she could have counted the vertebrae of her spine, when she had felt unsteady on her feet in a slight breeze, when checking the traps for doomed quail felt like too much, even if it was the only thing capable of bringing her relief.

Sara supposed it was because of her mindless determination to hunt Thea when she had first returned, the days without sleep or water or food while she continued to run across the entire city, expending energy carelessly. It was all catching up.

Sara forcibly grounded herself in another bite, swallowing a little more frantically when she felt the familiar sensation of rejection rising in her throat. She desperately took another sip of cold water, swirling it around her mouth to clear all the grit. She gagged around the next sip, the way the water rebounded into the back of her throat made her desperately cough, choking.

A hand flew up to her mouth as she forced her breathing to relax, strangling the tickle in her throat. Coughing could trigger throwing up, and those five small bites had been precious, the calories like gilded diamonds. Her hand settled flightily back into her lap as she swallowed again nervously, her mouth still warm.  _ Please, no  _ Sara silently begged, shuffling a small ice cube under her tongue.

She closed her eyes, trying her hardest to focus on not throwing up, relishing on the coolness of the ice. She felt her throat working frantically, suppressing a gag.

Laurel could read the panic set into Sara’s shoulders and saw the desperation of her throat, knowing her sister was on the edge of throwing up. A small sound of anguish escaped from Sara’s lips. Laurel could only imagine the helpless frustration her sister was experiencing—no doubt incredibly hungry, yet unable to eat.

Sara suddenly pushed herself to her feet and paced deliberately to the bathroom, clenching her jaw and forcing deep, measured breaths through her mouth. She was begging herself not to throw up, but if she did, she wasn’t about to do it at the dining room table.

A hot tear escaped the corner of Sara eye as she sunk to her knees in front of the toilet, clenched jaw aching, face burning, eyelids squeezed shut, breath hitching. She dimly heard footsteps in the background but found herself quickly distracted by another body-wide shudder.

“It’s okay, Sara. You’re okay.” Laurel whispered soothingly, entering the bathroom with washcloth in hand, wetting it at the sink before propping herself on her knees, braced against the bathtub.

Sara shuddered with another wave of sickness, her stomach trying to force the foreign material out. Her chest fluttered with another suppressed sob.

Laurel hesitantly placed a hand on Sara’s back, face crumbling in worry when her sister jumped as if she had been shot. But Sara didn’t shy away or pull herself out from under Laurel’s hand. Instead, she arched her back ever so slightly into the touch after the initial shock of the connection had faded.

Laurel rubbed slow circles on Sara’s hot back. “Thea said… eating might be hard. That you might feel… sick. That your body forgot how because it’s been so long. Is that… is your body rejecting the food?”

Sara nodded with a sob, tears beginning to stream freely over her cheeks. The breath rattled through her nostrils noisily.

“I’m going to put a cool cloth on your forehead, okay?” Laurel swore that she saw a small nod, so she leaned forward and slowly pressed the coolness into her sister’s warm forehead.

Her small body heaved again, and Laurel knew that Sara was going to lose this fight. The next shudder was accompanied by the bread and water.

Laurel set aside the cloth to hold Sara a little bit tighter. For the first time, Sara didn’t fight the contact or flinch, instead letting her older sister support her.

“You’re okay, Sara. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Laurel whispered as Sara frantically heaved, her body panicking and rejecting the microscopic meal. She rubbed Sara’s back in slow, gentle circles and pushed some loose strands of hair back.

When Sara had calmed, Laurel flushed and used the cloth to wipe at her mouth. Sara’s tiny frame was wracked with sobs.

Laurel applied suggestive pressure on Sara’s shoulder, and surprisingly the frightened woman allowed Laurel to lean her back off her knees, onto her butt, away from the bowl. She gently pulled Sara’s head into her chest, eyes widening momentarily as Sara followed her suggestion and leaned into her and she continued to sob.

The new emptiness of her stomach made Sara feel like she was folding in on herself. For the first time since coming back, she felt comforted by Laurel and her touch, her sister’s gentle hands softly taking care of her, offering to hold her. Sara pushed her face into Laurel’s chest, taking a deep breath of her scent, feeling the texture of her sweater against her cheeks, noticing the warmth that beckoned through the yawning void.

Sara leaned into that warmth with everything she had left.

Laurel tenderly pulled Sara into her lap, leaning against the tub for support and tenderly pulling both of Sara’s legs over her one thigh, curling her other leg around to tuck her foot under her knee, providing support. One arm hugged Sara tightly while the other continued rubbing.

“I’m—I’m so—so hungry.” Sara stuttered out, sobs wracking her body, distorting her words. “I’m—I’m so sleepy. And hung—hungry.”

“It’s okay, Sara.” Laurel whispered. “I know. It’ll be okay, we’ll find something.”

“Why—why can’t I e—eat. I’m so hungry bu—but my body won’t let me-me.”

“It’s… been a while.” Laurel chewed on her words. “Your body probably just got scared at the foreign substance, and didn’t know what to do with it after… after all this time.”

“Thea—Thea said she never got s—sick. Just that she had tr--trouble swallowing.”

“Thea was in a coma, so she’d had nutrition through a feeding tube when she was in the hospital.” Laurel replied, resting her lips on Sara’s head for a moment. She was desperately trying to hold herself together for her broken baby sister, trying to apply logic to a situation where there probably wasn’t any to be found. “Her stomach still knew what to do with the food inside of it, but her throat didn’t remember how to swallow for a while. We’ll just need to take it very slow so to jog  _ your _ stomach’s memory. Everything will be okay. I’ll help you, and I’m here for you. Okay?”

Sara nodded weakly, sniffling.

Quentin watched from the doorway, face contorted in pain. He’d always hated seeing his daughters sick, especially tiny little Sara, her blue eyes hot with fever and her tiny body wracked with nausea and pain. Laurel had always been a little bit bigger, felt a little more solid. To Quentin, from the day she was born, Sara had felt like a fragile little bird, so easy to break.

Sara’s frantic, hiccuping breath slowly evened out, tears streaming silently from her eyes. She nuzzled into Laurel, trying to burrow into the comfort. Her sudden stillness told Laurel that her sister had finally, fitfully, fell into sleep.

Laurel kissed Sara’s forehead tenderly. Sara looked almost… peaceful in sleep. A different kind of peace than the one that death had brought. A softer kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've considered making a side-blog on Tumblr just to post and talk about my writing. What do y'all think?  
> My personal blog is Saraa-lancee *wink wink* but its definitely a personal blog where I post everything lmao.


	9. This Road Never Looked So Lonely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurel and Thea are just friends for a while :)  
> Mention of throwing up. 
> 
> (Title: Its Time-- Imagine Dragons)

“How is Sara?” Thea asked anxiously, offering a fresh cup of coffee. Laurel let out a heavy, long suffering sigh before inhaling the delicious aroma.

“She’s… not great.”

Thea bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Laurel.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Laurel interrupted. “It’s my fault that she’s… like this. And that she hurt you so bad. And it’s my fault that you can’t live in your own home.”

“I mean it is your apartment, Laurel.” Thea pointed out lightly. “And if you blame yourself for making Sara like this then I blame myself for pushing you to do it: I  _ killed  _ her, Laurel. If the only penance she wants from me after literally murdering her is for me to stay in my brother’s extremely comfortable loft for a while, I think I’ll be more than okay.”

Laurel tried to grin at that. She knew Thea’s conscious weighed heavily on her over the death of Sara, even though she wasn’t exactly to blame—she had been drugged and under Merlyn’s control. Thea’s lightness of the situation was a rough attempt to cheer them both.  Although Laurel couldn’t lie to herself; she felt glad that she didn’t have to shoulder the guilt all alone.

“I’m serious, Laurel. It’s really not a big deal.” Laurel smiled tightly in thanks.

“Sara’s just having a really rough time physically. Well, and mentally. But it’s the physical stuff that is really scaring the crap out of me.”

“What do you mean?” Thea asked, stirring her coffee.

“At least with the mental stuff I can tell myself that Sara just needs some time; there’s no urgency. She’ll talk to me or dad when she feels a bit more acclimated, stronger. When she’s ready. But with the physical stuff… she’s literally starving to death. And when she tried to eat last night, her body just completely rejected everything.”

Thea tried to push down the rush of fear that threatened to choke her. She couldn’t stand by and watch Sara starve to death. She couldn’t let Laurel and Quentin and Oliver stand by and watch Sara waste away. She couldn’t let Sara die slowly and painfully, terrified of her own body and unable to control it, unable to save herself.  Thea tried to nod evenly instead, knowing that Laurel was likely having much the same thought. “We can wait for Sara to talk about it. But it’s not like we can just wait for her body to decide it can eat again. Especially since she was already pretty tiny before, and she’s spent the last few days running around the city spending calories like crazy.” Laurel nodded miserably.

“It broke my heart, hearing my baby sister sobbing about how hungry she was. And there’s nothing I can do. All I  _ can  _ do is encourage her to try to choke something down and then rub her back and dry her tears when she throws it back up again.”

The two women sat in silence for a few minutes, guilt and fear choking both of them.

“I forget, sometimes.” Laurel whispered eventually. “How… little she is. Seeing her crumpled on the floor of my bathroom, holding her in my arms… I don’t think she’s ever felt so small and fragile before. Like a single gust of wind could break every bone in her body.  Seeing her like that… I couldn’t reconcile that image of her and the image of the Black Canary, standing on the rooftop haloed by moonlight. She was so powerful. She’s always been powerful, really. A force of nature. So strong and silly and light and brave and unshakable.  It feels like God stopped a hurricane and left behind a rainstorm.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Im going to finish that one shot to post friday and still stay on schedule!   
>  *Still hasn't finished it.* *Resumes schedule casually*


	10. Stuck in a Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurel is there for Sara after a bad dream.

Laurel tried to enter her apartment as quietly as possible. It was late—nearly 11 pm—and while Sara had always been more of a night owl… canary?... she knew her sister was running low on fumes and would likely be in bed.  Sara hadn’t even really gotten out of bed at all—she’d been laying in Laurel’s bed when Laurel had left that morning and had been in the exact same space when she’d returned over her lunch hour to check on her. Granted, both times Sara hadn’t been asleep. Both times, Sara’s eyes had been so bleak and tired, helpless, staring at something a thousand miles away. But at least she was staying put, conserving some little bit of energy that she had left.  Laurel peeked in cautiously, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when she saw Sara’s haunted eyes finally closed, her chest rising and falling gently. Asleep. Peaceful, even if only for a few moments.

Laurel moved cautiously in her kitchen, deciding to opt for left-over pasta rather than risk making noise by cooking again. She smiled with dull satisfaction when she managed to stop the microwave at exactly one second, setting the pasta on the table on top of a potholder before digging right in, cursing softly at the first burning bite. She messed around on her phone while she unceremoniously shoved pasta into her mouth, her lunch having been cut short by her quick trip home. She didn’t register the first whimper, or maybe even the second. The first cry she did hear.

Dropping her fork, Laurel rushed into the bedroom, hoping that her paranoid brain was dreaming up new problems to have.

She should be so lucky.

Sara was thrashing wildly under the heavy covers, her cries escalating into shrieks of pure terror. Ice crept up Laurel’s spine at the sounds. “Sara?” Laurel whispered, approaching the bed as gently as she could. Sara continued to convulse, bucking and crying like the covers were smothering her. Laurel bent and smoothly tugged the blanket off of her sister, pulling it to the floor with one swift motion. “Sara?”

Gradually, she calmed-- her shrieks quieting to sobs that wracked her entire diminutive form, her only movement the frantic heaving of her chest.  Laurel noticed Sara’s eyes were wide open, whites flashing as her eyes flickered around the room like a cornered animal. 

Sara sat up weakly as Laurel sank into the mattress next to her. “Sara? You’re okay, you’re home.” Laurel lay her hand on Sara’s arm reassuringly, biting back a sob of her own when Sara jerked away as if her touch had been a slap. 

For the first time, Laurel realized that maybe to Sara, ‘home’ wasn’t safe. Maybe Sara didn’t feel at home at all. She swallowed around a sudden lump in her throat.  How did Laurel even begin to make her sister feel at home again, feel safe again? Could she?

Laurel stood gently, moving silently to the kitchen to put milk on the stove. She knew enough to see that Sara had been terrified out of her mind, that Laurel’s touch had scared her even more. So Laurel busied herself making hot chocolate, giving Sara time and space to wake up. When Sara was coming out of an obviously traumatic dream, she just needed a moment to reorient herself, to calm down. Any type of audience wouldn’t be any help. 

When the girls had been very little, Laurel remembered, Sara had been plagued by the occasional bad dream. Pretty standard little girl stuff, if she remembered correctly: Daddy getting hurt at work as a police officer, an Earthquake destroying the family home (and possibly its inhabitants), Mommy getting hurt in another car accident (the small fender bender on campus had nearly sent poor Sara into hysterics), Laurel crashing her bike.

Laurel had always been the first line of defense against the bad dreams, she remembered fondly. In those years, the years before boyfriends and other teenage girl problems, they had shared a room. When tiny little Sara had whimpered in her sleep, maybe five years old, Laurel was always up out of bed in a flash, smoothing the gossamer blonde locks out of Sara’s pinched face. Sometimes, Sara would let out a final whimper before relaxing, the bad dream vanishing in the face of concrete proof that everything was okay. Other times, Laurel would simply make sure Sara didn’t fall off the bed when she inevitably shot upright with a wail.  Of course, Daddy would always ultimately come to the rescue. 

Laurel glanced at her phone while she waited for the milk to heat, debating whether she should call their father. A small, raucous bubbling snapped her attention back to the stove, where she removed the heat and measured out cocoa powder before ladling a mug full of the liquid gold.

Laurel remembered the irony of Sara, even as a young child. Sara had always been one of those girls that adults liked to call “tough”: little Sara never shed a tear, even when she wrecked her bike and flew over the handlebars. Not when she was just learning to walk and fell, skinning her knee. Not when she had fallen from a tree and broken her arm. Not the time she had mis-aimed a potato peeler against her hand. She had delighted in late-night horror movie marathons and laughed from the top of jungle gyms. 

The only thing that could ever upset unflappable little Sara Lance was even the vague idea of someone she cared about getting hurt.  Even as a kid, Sara’s biggest fear had been losing her family, seeing them get hurt.

The irony was a bitter taste in Laurel’s mouth.  Teen-aged Sara had had to face those fears head on, floating alone in the ocean, certain that even if she lived, it wasn’t likely she was ever going to see them again.  That had become Sara’s life-- surviving. Alone. Watching people get hurt. Hurting people. 

Getting hurt.

“Do you want to talk about your dream?” Laurel asked softly, sliding into sit down next to her sister, who looked measurably calmer now. 

Sara was silent for long enough that Laurel wasn’t sure her sister had even heard her, her stare fixed far away. Laurel opened her mouth to ask again, but Sara shook her head slowly.

“I don’t even remember.” Sara replied slowly, dully. Numbness was pervading her entire body, moving from limb to limb like a snake of ice water coiling lazily around her.

“You sounded like you were being ripped limb from limb.” Laurel sounded incredulous. How did you not remember a dream that scared you so much?

“I’m sorry.” Sara whispered, voice small. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know. You don’t have to be sorry.” Laurel took a deep breath, trying to school her tone. Sara didn’t need to know she was so worried. “I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“You weren’t asleep, were you?” The idea seemed to strike Sara suddenly, dreadfully.

“No, I wasn’t doing anything.” Laurel replied evenly, forcing the warm mug into Sara’s hands. She responded with a tight-lipped smile, a  _ thanks for being here  _ smile mixed in with a  _ I think I might have forgotten how to smile  _ smile. “How long did you sleep?”

Sara bit her lip, gaze drifting to the window. “I... I’m not sure. It was light outside last time I was awake though.”

“Good. That means you’ve been out for at least four hours.”

Sara bent her head slowly, inhaling the hot chocolate deeply. “Mama always used to make hot chocolate for me when I was upset, as a kid.” 

Laurel found herself genuinely smiling. “You remember.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Sara closed her eyes, inhaling again before bringing the mug to her lips for a small sip. Laurel could see Sara swallow, but it seemed less pained than before. The accomplishment was not lost on Sara: her small grin made Laurel feel like the sun itself was shining bright through her blinds again on a sweet spring morning after a long and bitter winter, the birds on her windowsill cheeping joyfully. 

Laurel suddenly understood her mother a little bit better; hundreds of pictures, little stickers, colorful paper, scissors with crazy blades.

_ What’cha doing, mama?  _ Laurel asked, leaning just enough of her weight for her mother to notice her presence. 

_ I’m making a scrapbook, for our memories.  _ Dinah had smiled down at Laurel before swooping her into her lap to the delighted giggles of the small girl.

_ But if they’re memories, why do we need a book to help us remember them? _

Dinah had chuckled, resting her chin on her daughter’s head lightly.  _ Because as you get older, sometimes the details get a little fuzzy. And I want all of us to remember every little detail. _

_ Like my first lost tooth?  _ Laurel crowed proudly, shoving her lip aside to shine light on the fresh gap. Dinah giggled before nodding. 

_ You girls are growing up so fast.  _ Dinah sighed, thinking about her younger daughter’s fussy cries over her own tooth-growing agonies.

_ But I’m still little. _ Laurel protested.

_ You won’t stay little forever. _ Dinah replied. Laurel only shrugged, leaning forward to inspect a sheet of songbird shaped foil stickers. 

_ I’m pretty sure Sara will. _

Laurel remembered her favorite spread in that scrapbook, the one with two beautiful baby girls grinning, labels marked inside flower-shaped stickies, proclaiming a once-in-a-lifetime achievement for the girls: smiles. On the right: _ Sara’s first smile!  _

This was a scrapbook-able moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry about the earthquake mention it was a golden opportunity, i had to take it At this point you probably already know this about me. Also it is intentionally capitalized here because I am forcing y’all to notice it ok. 
> 
> Also was that ‘little’ comment in the end about how goddang little Sara is? Maybe.


	11. I Will Hold On Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara goes for brunch with Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We mention how literally f****ed up it is that Laurel chained Sara in a basement.... it was so messed up.... nobody talks about how messed up that was.... But also Quentin and Sara are just really sweet here. (Also casual reminder that I named Dinah Lance's new boyfriend Chad ok good)
> 
> This is a long one. This might be the longest chapter in this story and maybe ever?? I'm a short-and-sweet type of writer, in case you can't tell, but I just really went with it :)  
> I just see and adore the potential in their relationship so much and there is so much love between Quentin and Sara that this scene just flowed right out of me and kept on going. I wont apologize lol. 
> 
> (Title: The Cave, Mumford and Sons) --> I just felt the deep desire to explain that this title is actually about Quentin, his eternal love for Sara. He's always... hopeful for his family, for his daughters, no matter what happens, and even though Sara's not great, he just cant stop hoping.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Laurel asked worriedly. Sara nodded, glancing out the window at the familiar sound of her father’s car pulling up outside. 

“Yeah. I... want to spend some time with Dad. I might even be able to keep something down.”

“Okay.” Laurel replied, knowing that Sara was going to need to leave the nest behind soon enough anyway. “Just call me if you need anything.”

Sara nodded, glancing at the new phone Laurel had purchased. She was too proud to admit that all the new technology baffled her. Phones had changed a surprising amount in the year and a half she’d been dead, and she’d never been real handy with phones before that either. She’d been a teen in the era of flip-phones and the North China Sea had been devoid of cell signal. Nanda Parbat had been devoid of technology altogether: if the League used any phones at all, they were always burners that were untraceable and unremarkable, often only barely working for phone calls. She’d had a ‘real’ phone briefly when she’d returned to the city and her family and then only for the most basic functions, namely calling; she’d never really played around with it beyond that. 

Laurel had graciously added speed dial icons to her home screen. 

“I know, I will.” Sara replied, tucking the device in the back pocket of her jeans. “Thanks, Laurel.”

Laurel smiled back and Sara bounded down the stairs, refusing to trap herself in the elevator.

Quentin greeted her with a big smile and an open passenger door.

“Good morning, Daddy.” Sara reached out to clasp his hand, lingering in his touch. The touch felt less scary when she was in control of it like this, deciding that touch.

Quentin smiled, biting back tears. “Good morning, sweetheart.” 

Most little girls gave up  _ Daddy _ by middle school, if not earlier. As soon as a daughter knew embarrassment, the jig was up. Mommy and Daddy became Mom and Dad. To Laurel, Quentin was Dad. He remembered the moment that Laurel grew up very poignantly. Second grade-- Laurel had always been one of those kids that adults say  _ grew up fast _ \-- Quentin bending over and planting a feather-light kiss on her forehead on the sidewalk in front of Starling Elementary.  _ Dad! _ Laurel had groaned, ducking away from him in embarrassment.  _ Not in public!  _

The first time Laurel’s daddy had become dad: Just another embarrassed little girl. Quentin knew that all little girls became big girls embarrassed to love their families in public, he just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. It felt like a punch in the gut.  _ Oh how fleeting is childhood _ He remembered thinking as Laurel waved goodbye over her shoulder, racing to the front doors.

Quentin even remembered the last time Laurel had called him daddy, five months after Sara’s first funeral; the one where Sara's body wasn’t even there. Laurel had taken a few weeks off from school, her professors kindly promising they would support her when she was ready to come back after the death of her little sister. She’d been back in school a week and found her heart feeling heavy again. Friday night had come around and for the first time since Laurel could remember, she wasn’t spending it with Sara. That had always been their thing during school, even if they’d been arguing-- Friday night was for the girls (once a month during the summer). When Laurel had moved off to college, they’d continued the tradition over Skype. During those weeks off, Laurel had almost been able to pretend it was summer-- Sara was out all hours and they didn’t expect to see each other much, especially by then. The full  _ goneness  _ of her little sister hadn’t hit until their first missed Girls Night since Kindergarten. 

Laurel had drove home, wiping tears from her eyes as she parked in the cemetery. She’d sat cross-legged in front of Sara’s empty plot, sobbing. Quentin had gotten off work a little early for once and he decided he wanted to visit his daughter. He’d arrived to see Laurel falling to pieces and he’d taken her in his arms, doing his best to help her stay together. 

_ I just miss her so much, daddy.  _

_ I know, baby. I miss her too _ . 

After that night, Laurel had regained her composure as a grown up, and not the type that still called their fathers daddy.

But Sara still called him daddy. Sara was still his little girl. Quentin felt his heart swelling in his chest.

Quentin realized he’d never had that moment with Sara, that feeling of  _ I’ve lost her, she’s all grown up.  _ He wasn’t sure if that made him sad or not-- obviously, Sara had done most of her actual growing up on a deserted island in the North China Sea, alone and afraid. He hadn’t been there to support her through her trials. Even after he’d promised he would always be there.

But how much had Sara grown up, really? She would always be daddy’s little girl, but she was in her late twenties. Maybe she hadn’t so much grown up as become stuck, like a mosquito in amber-- only this mosquito was missing a leg or two, maybe had a broken wing. Frozen in pain, stuck like this.

Maybe Sara was stuck. Stuck calling him daddy. Stuck on that damned boat. Stuck in all the bad things that had happened to her.

“Could we keep the window open?” Sara asked hesitantly, staring anxiously at the only reasonable portal to the outside world.

“Of course.” Quentin jolted out of his reverie, rolling down her window, the freshness of the morning breeze untouched by the day’s coming heat. Sara closed her eyes, face turning into the current, a faint smile touching her lips delicately. “Have you eaten much, since... the other night?” Quentin hesitated to remind her. 

Sara shook her head, the look of calm fading. Quentin kicked himself silently-- he should have waited at least until the restaurant. “I’ve had some hot chocolate and a few cups of tea. I ate a whole grape yesterday.” She grinned wryly, trying to hide her exhaustion. “Hot liquids can be a good appetite suppressant, though, so I’m doing a bit better in here.” She gestured at her head loosely. 

“That’s good.” Quentin genuinely felt it. “Do you want to try to eat? Does fruit sound tolerable?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good. That’s great.” Quentin forced himself to take a deep breath. “How’s the Breakfast Nook?” 

Another light smile danced on his daughter’s face. “That sounds good. They always have the good fresh fruit.”

“You remember that?” Quentin asked, trying to make light conversation and trying to map his boundaries.

Sara shrugged. “Some of my memories are coming back, although it’s taking forever.” He chuckled under his breath-- little Sara, ever impatient. “I remember going there... for mom’s birthday. That was her favorite restaurant.” 

“Yeah, it was. Something about their pancakes really did it for your mother.” Sara let out a heavy sigh, at the memory or at the conversation he couldn’t tell. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. It’s just... I was just remembering that Breakfast Nook is local; they don’t have one in Central.”

The realization hit Quentin.  _ She misses her mother. _ “Dinah said you could go over.” He tried. Sara just looked at him, a little confused. “On the phone the other night, didn’t she? Maybe you should go spend a few days with her, soak up some mother-daughter time. I know you’re missing her.”

“Maybe.” Sara sighed again. “But maybe she was just being polite about that part.”

“About the staying over for a few days part?”

“Yeah.” Sara was silent for a few agonizingly long heart-beats. He heard the rasp of her fingernails on her jeans. “I... just want my mom.” The admission was almost a sob. 

“You mean, you’re worried about Chad?” Sara nodded miserably. “Honey, Dinah would choose you any day, she’s your mother.”

“I... don’t want to be the person that makes someone make that choice.” She whispered, the scratching getting more frantic. 

“Listen, Sara. There is nothing wrong with wanting to be with your mother, especially when you’re going through a rough time. I think Chad would get that, that he’d respect it.”

“Have you met him in the year and a half I was dead?”

“No.” Quentin exhaled, the sound almost a chuckle. “But your mother loves him.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Your mother is a smart woman-- she knows what she wants. I know her and I don’t think she’d want anyone like that. If she sees something in Chad... then he can’t be a bad guy.”

Sara seemed to ponder his point, the scratching slowing down as he pulled into the parking lot.

“Patio?” He guessed, noticing her stricken look when he rolled the window up.

“Yes, please.” Her shoulders relaxed a little at that, walking with her elbow brushing his.

“It doesn’t look like they’re too busy.” Quentin commented, secretly thankful. “Listen, we can just order you a fruit bowl and you eat whatever you want. No pressure.”

Sara’s face softened, tension leaving. “Thank you, daddy. I haven’t been... out. Anywhere. Since...” She trailed off, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear restlessly. 

“Are you worried?” Quentin asked, remaining vague out of fear of introducing a new thought she hadn’t come up with on her own.

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone could recognize me. I guess its that same feeling of just... having to look over your shoulder when you do anything, go anywhere. It’s just jarring.”

“Was there... Anything?”

“If there was, I don’t remember it. When I opened my eyes on the floor, it felt like I was waking up from a nap. Only this time, everything was different. A year and a half didn’t really pass for me. But it did for everyone else.”

“Kinda like how Sleeping Beauty must have felt.”

A smile danced around Sara’s lips as a hostess took them to a seat on the patio. Sunlight glinted off of Sara’s hair beautifully. 

“That was always Laurel’s favorite movie.” Sara said after Quentin had ordered a coffee. “I always preferred Mulan.”

“Huh. You did.” Quentin laughed breathily. Sara’s new exclusively tight lipped smile almost flashed some teeth. 

“The irony.” Sara agreed.

“You guys used to get in screaming matches about those movies.” Quentin remembered fondly, nodding his thanks to the waitress as she placed his fresh coffee on the table. They ordered quickly: an omelette with a side of bacon and some fruit. 

“Mulan was obviously the better movie.” Sara mumbled, sipping her water.

Quentin chuckled, pausing at the heavy silence that followed. “Are you feeling any... different?”

Sara shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. I definitely feel different than... before.” 

“Before you died?” 

“Yeah.” Sara whispered, picking at a strip of peeling paint on their table. That was one thing that was the same, Quentin thought distantly-- Sara had always been a massive fidget. Part of what haunted him so much about the thought of her being dead was the absence of that constant movement, the image of Sara lying so, so still. He couldn’t decide if the return of that movement freaked him out even more or not. 

“Thea said there was definitely a learning curve.” Quentin tried to remain light while aching for Sara to just... talk to him.

“Yeah, I guess so. I don’t feel physically strange though, beyond the eating thing. I feel like I’m still me: my body still belongs to me. Thea said she’d felt like a baby deer in some ways, figuring how to just  _ be  _ again. But that’s my problem. I  _ am,  _ even though I don’t want to be.” Sara stayed silent for a moment, her gaze going distant.

“Sara...” Quentin asked, fear tugging at his heart.  _ Please don’t leave, baby girl. Please. Not again.  _

Sara shook herself and took a deep breath, seeming to make a conscious effort to return. “Don’t worry, daddy. I will  _ be _ .” She tried to smile lightly, for her father’s sake, but it just made her look so much smaller and more.... 

Tired. Sara was so tired, Quentin realized with an uncomfortable jolt. His daughter had been through so much. She didn’t need to tell him some of the things that had happened to her-- he could just tell. Father’s intuition or something, he supposed. And no matter how brutal or untimely her death had been, she had been at rest. Finally. 

Laurel hadn’t asked Sara if she’d wanted to be brought back. Something in Quentin told him that Sara deserved to be at rest. Everyone is missed when they’re dead-- that’s the whole point of family. But his daughter’s grief over the loss of her sister had turned her selfish: she’d stolen Sara’s well-earned peace. 

“Are you okay, daddy?” Sara’s soft voice yanked him back to the table. She sounded worried.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m sorry, I just got lost in my own head.” Sara nodded sympathetically. “You were about to say something.”

Sara shrugged, seeming almost embarrassed. “I feel like I am, even though I don’t want to be. My body continues to exist. My heart still beats. But... my mind wanders. My body is, but... my mind  _ isn’t. _ ”

Quentin reached his hand out tentatively, hoping to offer her comfort but remembering the jolt of fear underneath his hand when he had hugged her that first night. She smiled sadly, meeting his hand on the table, her sleeve bunching up above her wrist, revealing a glaring red mark. Quentin inhaled sharply but before he could say anything, the waitress returned with a smile. Sara jumped and broke off the contact hurriedly, thanking the waitress politely. 

Quentin decided to dig in before saying anything, hoping that Sara would think he was just casually asking about it rather than that the question had been brought on by their touch. He smiled around a bite of his own breakfast when Sara munched on a bit of melon, her demeanor shifting slightly.

“I... feel like I can eat this.” Sara said happily, taking another bite. Quentin only beamed back, noticing the small glare of pride in her eyes at his display of joy. 

They ate in silence for a few moments, Sara thoughtfully taking very small bites, but bites nonetheless. 

“How are your wrists?” Quentin tried to ask nonchalantly, his failure obvious by the tension which suddenly took over Sara’s body. “Those chains look like they left a pretty painful mark.”

“Chains?” Sara repeated numbly, examining her wrist a little closer. The mark was a deep crimson decorated with small scabs and a faint brown-yellow tinge. The last time she had seen marks like that on herself... she shivered violently, involuntarily. 

“Yeah. When we first brought you back, your soul was on an extended vacation.” Quentin tried not to think about the reality of the situation, and all its implications--  _ your soul was still in its own personal hell.  _ “You... well, you just weren’t you. You were just a body. Maybe that’s why you feel like you do; like your body is here but your mind isn’t. Your soul could still be settling in, proverbially.” 

“I... I don’t remember any of that.” Quentin felt a pebble of dread in his gut. Sara didn’t remember the time before she got her soul back, and much of what had happened beyond Thea. He shouldn’t have asked. “Where... when was I chained up?” Her voice had gone distant again and sorrow cloaked his heart-- he’d lost Sara to her void again.

“When Laurel and Thea brought you back... Laurel didn’t know what to do. She thought if she gave you time, you’d remember and everything was going to be okay.”

“Laurel?” Sara replied, beginning to float away again. She gripped the edge of the table, suddenly afraid. Her mind was racing. “Ollie... Ollie wouldn’t have let Laurel...”

Quentin winced at the use of the childhood nickname.  _ Maybe she’s stuck...  _ “Yeah, well. Laurel wasn’t exactly very free with the information of your location. Or that she’d resurrected you.”

Sara’s distant gaze finally snapped back to focus on him, confusion and fear visible behind the clear blueness of her eyes. “Laurel... but, she lives in an apartment...” Nothing made sense to her anymore. That feeling of wanting to crawl up into a ball, of everything just being too much, washed over her again. 

Quentin took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He’d accidentally started the conversation. He had to finish it, and he couldn’t lie to his daughter, not about this. Finding out the truth later would only hurt so much worse. And Sara deserved better. She deserved the truth. 

He tried to blink away the image of him standing there, pointing a gun at her head as she rocked back and forth, chained to a cement column.

“Sara....” He sighed again. “I’m sorry. I thought you remembered, or at least knew. I’m sorry. But Laurel. She chained you in the basement of her complex. She... didn’t tell Oliver that she’d been to Nanda Parbat. She did everything in secret. Oliver only found out after you escaped. I’m sorry.” 

Sara blinked rapidly, not in the furtive tear-clearing way but in a totally-confused way. “When I escaped to  _ hunt  _ Thea.” She whispered. “Oh my god. I hurt other people, didn’t I?”  Quentin dropped his gaze-- an answer enough for her. “I hurt other people and I don’t even remember any of it. I...I killed someone, didn’t I?” He nodded solemnly. 

“I’m sorry baby girl.” Sara could tell he meant it. “But you need to believe that it wasn’t your fault--  _ you  _ didn’t hurt anyone. Your body was following instinct, searching for your killer. It was acting on its own. The most important part of you was stuck. You didn’t really do it. Because you’re not like that, Sara.’

The numbness was covering her again, like a familiar blanket. A familiar blanket that she hated because it was so damned itchy. “But I am.”


	12. I Don't Wanna Be Someone Hollow From The Inside Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurel comes home to find a distraught Sara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, we're back to short! Sorry if you don't like short chapters but I just... seem to gravitate towards them, especially for this story? This is honestly more of a lead-up to the next chapter a little bit more.
> 
> (Title: Dont Wanna Be- The Score

Laurel entered her apartment quietly, finding Sara in her usual vigil, perched on the edge of the sofa. Not moving, not saying anything. Barely breathing. It was as if she was concentrating on something far, far away. Laurel set her purse on the counter, nearly jumping out of her skin when Sara spoke softly.

“You. You kept me chained in your basement. And didn’t tell anyone.” 

Laurel wished Sara sounded anguished, wished that her baby sister was crying or screaming at her, accusing her, hating her. Instead, she just sounded so… empty. Almost as if she didn’t actually care one way or another about the answer to the question. As if she was asking if Laurel preferred tea or coffee.

Laurel closed her eyes, steeling herself. “Yes. I was panicking, I didn’t know what to do. I figured it was only a matter of time until you remembered, like Thea.” Sara didn’t respond, gaze fixed a million miles away. Laurel winced. “I know I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done that. Chained you up like an animal.”

Sara still didn’t respond. Laurel sighed. What would it take to provoke some kind of emotion from her sister? 

“I’ll let you get some rest.” Laurel paused. Sara could sit so still now, like a statue. It unnerved Laurel: Sara had always been so bubbly and energetic that it had secretly surprised all members of the Lance family that she had graduated high school, let alone chosen to go to college to sit through hours of lectures and reading. Now Sara could just sit and stare, not even twitching a finger.

“I am.”

The soft words startled Laurel, and she whirled around. 

“What?”

“I am an animal.”

A lump formed in Laurel’s throat. “No, Sara. You’re better now.”

Sara didn’t show any sign that she’d heard her sister. Laurel stood in the doorway just watching Sara sit for a few moments. When she got no further response, she gently cracked the door to her room behind her.  The gesture had already become automatic to Laurel. The click of a door could startle her sister and closed doors seemed to make her anxious. Now, all the doors in Laurel’s apartment were always open, permanently cracked to offer some privacy while still allowing Sara some kind of peace of mind. 

Closed doors reminded Sara too much of being locked in. Of being someone else’s. Of not having any control. All that Sara wanted was some kind of control.


	13. I'm Dying To Feel Again [Anything At All]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Self Harm TW, Sexual Assault Mention, heavy disreality)
> 
> Yikes so I probably went too far with this scene and I’m sorry if did. That is why I’m including a GIGIANTIC self harm warning for this scene. I also... maybe want to include an assault mention here?   
> This is about control and having power over herself and I feel like its important to bring up times when she might not be so in control-- heavily implied sexual assault.
> 
> TItle: Gold-- Imagine Dragons

Control. The thought was tantalizing to Sara; having control over herself again. Having control over herself for the first time.

Everything felt so out of control. 

She realized that she’d never really had any control over her body. As a little kid, it’s different, she mused. It’s not  _ really  _ a body-- its a vessel for your growing and learning soul. You didn’t get to pick your hair or your clothes, you couldn’t get any piercings or tattoos. Your body wasn’t you, at least not yet. It didn’t become your body until you got to make some of those decisions, until you start to express yourself. An expression most people, her included, started playing with as a teenager.

As a teen, she’d had to aggressively defend her body from horny teenage boys that thought they had a right to it because it was something they’d wanted. They’d duel her for her body over a line of shots-- they would suck alcohol down, hoping the petite blonde would fall out first so they could touch her and pretend it was consensual. Sara had never lost a duel.

She’d been a teenager still when she’d been shipwrecked, fished from the sea and ‘taken in’ by a mad scientist. ‘Taking in’ had a rather steep price tag, Sara had learned painfully quickly. A price tag Anthony Ivo was all too eager to make good on, with interest. The  _ do what I say or else  _ had come later, and he’d bent her hands to torture and experimentation she wanted no part in. Sometimes, the  _ or else  _ came later anyway, just to play with her. She’d been a toy.

Somewhere along the way, 19 had rolled over to 20 to 21, but the sea wasn’t done with her yet. This rescue had been even more expensive-- not just her body, but her soul. Beaten into a semblance of submission by big men in black hoods and jerked around like a puppet on a string by Ra’s al-Ghul himself.  _ Decorate yourself with the blood of my enemies or else.  _ This time,  _ or else  _ hadn’t come-- she was still breathing after all. But still, she’d done his bidding, praying that every kill would stave off the seemingly inevitable. She’d been a tool.

Sometimes, she couldn’t figure out which had been worse. Either way, it hadn’t been a decision. It had been survival.  Sara couldn’t remember the last decision she’d made for herself. Had it really been at the dock, sneaking over the railing of the Gambit? Or maybe it had been abandoning Nyssa in the dead of night, destination Starling City.  Leaving Starling to go back to the League hadn’t really been her decision-- she was just a powerful variable in an equation she couldn’t figure out how to solve. Her choice had been made out of necessity-- she had belonged to the city and the League, not herself. 

This time, Laurel had made the decision. Laurel had decided that Sara  _ was  _ going to survive, whether she wanted to or not. Laurel had decided that Sara was going to live with this pain.  It wasn’t any less alienating. Laurel’s decision truly came out of love, but Sara couldn’t help but feel that that love was misplaced. They’d just started to have a good relationship when she’d been killed: they’d practically been at each other’s throats before Sara vanished for six years. She hadn’t known Sara; Sara had barely even known herself. 

Then it hit her: Laurel hadn’t brought  _ her  _ back, she’d brought back the sister she had been about to become. 

It hurt. Almost. She’d have to feel pain to know if something was actually hurting or not.

_ Can I even feel pain anymore? _

Sara desperately wanted to belong to herself for once. Not to Oliver Queen or Anthony Ivo or the League of Assassins or Starling City or Laurel Lance. To herself.

_ Am I even real?  _

Real people belonged to themselves, not to everybody else. 

_ Can I even bleed? _

Only real people could bleed, could feel pain. Bleeding meant pain. Pain was real.

_ Can I feel pain? _

Sara’s gaze unconsciously flitted to the trash can, candle light reflecting off of the sharp points of glass nestled within make-up stained cotton balls and crumpled tissues. An empty tube of mascara sat perched on top of the refuse. Sara paused, dimly wondering when the last time she had worn a full face of makeup had been, when the last time she had worn  _ any  _ makeup had been. Laurel had always loved makeup, begging Dad to be allowed to wear lipstick on the first day of high school (he’d obviously said no, but become a bit more lenient by sophomore year.) 

Sara nudged the tube out of the way, digging her hand in through the garbage, stopping short at a light prick. She tenderly gripped the shard, pulling it out with her hand, observing it numbly. She slowly pressed a point into the pad of her thumb, testing how sharp the makeshift blade was. Her hands were fairly calloused, but the glass still made a clean pinprick, red oozing from the minuscule injury.  Sara popped her thumb in her mouth, sucking the blood away. The taste of iron was cloying after her exclusive recent diet of hot chocolate, fruit, water, and buttered bread.

So she could bleed. She was real, she was standing here in her sister’s bathroom. This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination or a vision. She was real and breathing and her heart was beating.

She set the glass carefully on the edge of the sink, satisfied at the outcome of her little experiment. She turned the handle in the shower, flinching away from the momentarily frigid liquid. She slowly undressed herself, relishing the sensation of being free of the scratchy material. Even the softest of fabrics grated against her nerves.

She’d found herself utterly unable to shower with more light than a gently flicking candle could provide, the realness of her body always confounding and terrifying her. For once, not being able to see every detail around her was a blessing.

She stepped into the now hot water, sighing at the sensation of warmth and comfort. It was like a hug, but infinitely better because it wasn’t. The soap was slippery and impermanent, just like her reality- temporary stains dripping down the drain into the unseen abyss below. She washed slowly, reveling in sensation for the first time since she’d been back.  Her fingers dipped below her waistline. She cleaned hesitantly, tenderly. Trying, honestly, not to feel too much-- scared that she would feel too little. She didn’t want to push the limits, to discover the true extent of her self-ownership. 

Even though the room was heated with steam, the absence of the water made her shiver. She stepped carefully out of the tub, reaching for the towel but stopping just short of grabbing it, the rough material rubbing unpleasantly against her fingertips. Sara took a deep breath, steeling herself for the rather tortuous task, Laurel’s soft bath towels (her pride and joy when she had guests over) feeling like sandpaper. She decided pat-drying would be the least painful approach.  She patted slowly and gently, her gaze shifting lazily to the mirror. Distance yawned between image and reality. Every inch of her body felt so alien to her, that alienness painfully flaring as she dried every inch. The grace with which she moved, the hunger and anger she felt made it obvious it  _ was  _ her body, but it still felt weird. It felt other. Other that somehow still belonged to her. 

She needed control.

Everything was out of control.

The glint of the glass was tantalizing in the candle light.  Maybe this would give her control, give her some say in what happened to her body. This little piece of garbage could be her freedom.

She ached for her freedom. In an unnaturally steady hand, she gripped the glass.  _ Ivo and Ra’s used to praise me for my steady hand.  _ Sara shook the thought away, dangling the sharp edge against her pure skin, almost threateningly. 

_ Control. I get to choose what happens to me.  _ She dug in, slowly dragging and digging.  _ What  _ is  _ going to happen to me? _

Her blood was hot and sticky, spilling deliciously. Droplets rolling and dancing tantalizingly. Single dribbles quickly merged together into a small stream. A droplet splashed onto the clean white tile. Taint. She’s tainted the bathroom floor.  _ She’d _ tainted the bathroom floor. 

Pain roared through her arm, begging her to stop, but she needed more. More. More control. Control. She knew how to control pain. This was how she could get control. 

This was how she could prove she was real and in control. She clenched her fist, blood oozing with renewed vigor.  _ More. God, more, please.  _ She dug in again, pulling the shard agonizingly slowly, opening up a third red, jagged grin across her wrist. 

Then she realized something.

“Why don’t I feel anything?”


	14. If You Get Lost You Can Always Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurel cares for Sara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self harm and injuries NOTE-- this one is from Laurel's perspective and thus is a 'witness' of Sara being hurt and being disassociated and confused.
> 
> (Title: Home, Phillip Phillips)

“Sara! Oh my god!” Laurel shouted, grabbing a towel as she dashed to her sister, dropping to her knees. She smacked the glass from Sara’s hand: the tinkle of it shattering on the tile, spattering blood droplets, far too pretty for what it had just been doing. “Sara?”

Sara wasn’t responding, just staring at her arm, transfixed by the rivulets of blood decorating her arm. “Why don’t I feel it?” Sara’s voice was just as distant and confused as her gaze. 

“What?” Laurel asked, forcefully grasping Sara’s arm and wrapping it in the towel. The contact had to have hurt like hell but Sara didn’t move at all. Laurel grasped at her frantically, hoping nothing important had been severed and that she could get the bleeding under control quickly. 

“Why don’t I feel anything?” Sara sounded dazed-- she wasn’t really responding to Laurel, or talking to Laurel at all; she was asking the universe. 

“Shit, Sara.” Laurel gasped, flipping the light switch. Sara didn’t even flinch, like she usually did. She grasped her sister’s tiny forearm desperately, pink stains spreading steadily across the once glistening white fabric. “Shit.” Laurel peeled back the towel to view the jagged scars underneath, fresh blood struggling forth. “ _ Shit. _ ” Laurel clamped back down desperately, reviewing her options. What did her first aid kit even have in it? The cuts were terrifyingly deep to her; would she need stitches? Laurel didn’t think she could do stitches at all, let alone like this.  _ If it’s bad, I just need to staunch the bleeding, then we can get to Oliver. He can stitch her cleanly.  _ She nervously pulled at the edge of the rapidly pinkening towel.

“Ok, Sara, I’m going to go get my First Aid box, Okay? Please, don’t move. Just... stay here.” Sara didn’t acknowledge her-- she probably wasn’t going to move anyway. 

Still, Laurel dashed madly across her apartment, frantically popping the plastic hinges of the kit and rifling through its contents. “Suture strips! Thank god.” Laurel was gasping with panic, grabbing the supplies. She rushed back to Sara’s side.

“Why can’t I feel anything?” Sara’s voice was barely above a whisper, tears tugging heavily at her eyelashes. 

“It’s going to be okay, Sara. I’ve got you, I’m going to take care of you.” Laurel whispered, hands surprisingly gentle and steady as she slowly peeled away the saturated towel. The wounds were no longer bleeding so freely-- she hadn’t cut anything too important or irreversible. She cleaned the skin with iodine before placing the sticky backing gently to both sides and pulling on the zip.  Sara didn’t flinch at the stinging disinfectant, or squirm at the sensation of her skin closing. Sara didn’t move at all, seemingly only barely breathing. Laurel slowly and loosely wound gauze, just in case.

“Sara? Please, what...” Laurel couldn’t find the words. Somehow, she doubted they would matter anyway-- Sara’s gaze was still fixed to some unabsolute distance. “I’m going to pick you up now. Take you to bed.” No response.  As gingerly as she could, Laurel gathered Sara into her arms, watching her head around the door frames. She sat Sara on the bed, tenderly brushing hair out of her face, unwilling to let go.  “I love you, Sara.” Laurel whispered, not entirely sure her sister could even hear her. “I love you so, so much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know they’re called ‘wound zippers’ or zipstitches but i HATE that word, it makes me feel so ugh so we call them suture strips ok good
> 
> If anyone's curious, I'm one chapter away from having this story completely finished [writing]!  
> Come party on my writing Tumblr: Queer Canary Writes (or come hit up my personal blog Saraa-Lancee


	15. There's Odds Against 'It Ends Well'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurel calls Oliver for advice and support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self harm (including a one-line suicide mention, just to be cautious here) TW
> 
> Title-- Jungle, X-Ambassadors

Laurel paced across her apartment restlessly, deep in thought. She couldn’t get the image out of her head, the blood, the glass, the look in Sara’s eye... Empty. She’d looked empty. 

Sara was not good. She was eating again, sometimes, but she still wasn't good. And Laurel had no idea what to do. Panic bubbled in her chest as her mind whirled. What if Sara began to hurt herself regularly? What if Sara began slipping in the field on purpose, for the sake of feeling the pain? What if Sara killed herself?  Laurel needed help. She couldn’t do this, definitely not alone. Laurel felt like her movements were jerky and frantic as she crossed the apartment to pick up her phone, dialing Oliver. 

“Hey, Laurel. What’s up?” Just the sound of his voice over the line felt comforting. 

“I... I need... I don’t know what to do...” Tears finally began to brim over her eyes. 

“Okay, slow down and breathe for me. What’s wrong?” Always steady, always strong.

“Sara... she... she’s not doing good. I... I don’t know what to do... she...” Laurel was stumbling frantically over her words, tears flooding freely and silently now.

“Did something happen, Laurel?” Laurel bit her lip, considering what she should say. “Laurel.” Oliver interrupted her thoughts sternly, but not unkindly.

“Sara... she hurt herself.” Laurel said slowly, concentrating on speaking clearly. “On purpose. She was just hurting herself and asked me why she didn’t feel anything.”

Oliver was silent for a heavy moment, seemingly weighing words. “How is she now?”

“She’s fine, I guess. Just, sitting there. That’s all she does, is sit there and stare at something nobody else can see.” Her voice was edging on hysteria.

“How bad was it? Does she need stitches or anything?” Laurel shook her head frantically before realizing she would have to find words.

“No, I just used some of those strips. They were pretty deep but the bleeding slowed when I applied pressure for a while so I taped and wrapped.”

“Did she have a knife? Or something else?”

“Some glass. When Thea cleaned up the apartment after Sara-sans-soul wrecked it, she must have dumped a pan of glass in the bathroom trash and we all just forgot it was in there.”

“Do you think she’ll try it again?”

“I... I don’t know.” Laurel’s voice faltered into a sob. “I’m so scared, Oliver.”

“It’s going to be okay, Laurel.”

“She was just so... blank! She was digging into her arm with the disinterest a general surgeon has on their thousandth appendectomy. Like it didn’t matter, like she didn’t care.”

“Like an experiment. Like she didn’t feel it.”

“Yes. Like that first night when you were digging the glass out of her hand, when she punched the mirror, remember?”

“Yes. She didn’t even acknowledge us or seem to care what happened to herself. Sara doesn’t just sit back and let people touch her, even people she trusts and cares about.” Oliver mused, concerned himself.  


“She didn’t even really say anything. When she asked why she didn’t feel anything... it wasn’t like she was asking me. It was like she was asking the universe.” Laurel pondered. “And she didn’t, hasn’t, said anything else. Just... stares.” They sat in heavy silence over the phone for a while before Oliver spoke again.

“What can I do to help?” Oliver's sincerity and concern, evident in his voice, made Laurel tear up again.   


“Can she come by tonight, maybe? Just... sit in the cave while you guys are out on patrol? I... I think maybe she’s trapped inside her head and it’s literally driving her crazy. Like she’s feeling trapped, closed in, and needs to get out, somewhere that isn’t my apartment.” Laurel’s voice shrunk in on itself, her words as tiny as Sara. “She needs people to prove to her that she’s real.”

“Of course.” Oliver tried to infuse his voice with kindness. “You need a break too. Take some time to just forget about Sara, take care of yourself.”

“Okay. Thank you, Ollie.” Laurel herself felt so small, a child way too far out at sea, struggling back to shore. Sara was drowning, but the problem was that Laurel only barely knew how to swim herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come party on my writing Tumblr: Queer Canary Writes (or come hit up my personal blog Saraa-Lancee)


	16. And I Wont Let You Choke [On The Noose Around Your Neck]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *More discussion of self-harm, but no real graphic description*
> 
> Oliver needs Sara to know he's here for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did take a break from posting this to try to do that thing where you take a break from a piece your struggling with to come back at it "fresh"... and it did not work! (its just a few transition spots, but its really bugging me that they just don't feel right...)   
> I'm so sorry for the hiatus but I'm going to try to break past this weird block in this story! Thank you so much for your patience. 
> 
> [Title: The Cave, Mumford and Sons]

“How are you?” Oliver asked, eyes taking in the small woman anxiously as soon as she walked in the door.

“I’m okay.” Sara replied softly. Unconvincingly. 

Oliver didn’t respond at first, just trailed over slowly to sit on the steps to the command center of the room. “Okay.”

“I’ve missed a lot.” Sara said, gaze hovering around the room.

“Yes.” Oliver agreed simply, hoping he would eventually lull her to sit near him on the steps. “It’s been weird. Knowing that you weren’t out there somewhere.”

“I imagine it was an emotional roller coaster.” She took a step closer. 

“It always has been, between us. Coming and going out of each other’s life.” Oliver sighed heavily. “It was... difficult. Knowing for certain that you had finally gone.”

Sara cocked her head almost playfully, taking another step closer. “That must make this pretty confusing then.”

“Is it confusing for you?” 

Sara nodded, finally settling hesitantly on the very edge of the steps. “Yeah. It’s different. I’m different.”

“Different.” Oliver repeated, letting the word diffuse throughout the room. “Different isn’t always bad.”

“It depends on who’s defining the good then, I guess.”

“I’m guessing that means you’re not.”

Sara shook her head sadly, leaning back into the stair, into Oliver’s space. “No.” She admitted. I feel bad. Really bad.”

“Is that why you hurt yourself?” Oliver asked bluntly. He could feel the small body near him tense and he had to fight to avoid tensing himself. But she didn’t run, or push away, or laugh the subject away, like he’d expected. “Laurel called. She sounded pretty scared.”

“I would never hurt Laurel.” Sara objected quickly.

“Laurel wasn’t afraid of you hurting her. She was afraid of you hurting you.”

“I just wanted to see. To find out.”

“Find out what?”

“If I felt anything.”

“Laurel said you asked why you couldn’t.”

“I didn’t. Feel anything. I was cutting myself and it hurt so badly but I didn’t really care. I didn’t feel anything.” 

“You felt pain.” Oliver said, confused.

“Yeah, but I didn’t care.” Sara picked at a crease on her pant leg from the bend of her knee. “It hurt so bad, but I didn’t care. I probably could have cut my hand off and... not cared.”

The silence was heavy-- Oliver felt the need to say something, he just couldn’t figure out what. 

“I’ve never not cared about my body before.” Sara said hesitantly. “I... wanted to know. I feel so bad. I wanted to know if I would actually feel anything anymore. And I didn’t. I wanted... control.”

“You wanted control?” Oliver couldn’t stop the question from popping out of his mouth.

“I never get to pick what happens to me. I wanted control, I wanted power over myself. I never get to decide what happens to me.” Sara’s voice nearly broke and Oliver’s heart did. “But I didn’t feel powerful, or strong, or in control. I felt empty.” A tear streaked down her cheek. 

Oliver hadn’t even considered what might have been going through Sara’s head at her resurrection, but now he could only consider one possibility:  _ How dare she? _ While Sara didn’t seem to remember much, if anything, of her time as a corpse, Oliver figured this must all be so jarring. Almost as jarring as being pulled out of the ocean and told what to do  _ or else. _

Oliver could understand and sympathize with her desire for control, after everything that had happened to her; the Gambit, the Amazo, the League. Death is the least amount of control you can have over yourself. And being brought back to life is definitely a close second.

And she was right-- so much had changed. Life had gone on without her. Time had done what it always does-- it keeps ticking, with no consideration for the dead.

Sara hadn’t exactly chosen to die, but she really hadn’t chosen to be brought back. Perhaps the reason the dead were supposed to stay that way wasn’t anything to do with vengeance or grief: maybe it was because the dead can’t cope with the change inherent in being alive. Laurel hadn’t been able to ask Sara if she’d wanted this twisted version of a second chance. Oliver had the dull feeling that maybe she didn’t.

“Are you upset?” He asked after Sara seemed to regain her composure. 

“With Laurel?” Sara asked, standing restlessly. Oliver nodded. She shrugged. “I don’t know, Ollie.”

“She did it because she loves you.” The words felt empty in his mouth. “Like I did it for Thea. Because I loved her too much.”

“I know. But... I’m so tired.” Her voice was a rasp, her gaze fixing on that point only she could see. “I... don’t know where I went. What happened to me after... but whatever it was, I was at rest. And maybe... being awake is too hard.”

Oliver desperately just wanted to pull her into a tight hug, wanted them to just hold each other while they sobbed. But he knew that hugging her would feel like trapping her. It would hurt her. Oliver desperately didn’t want to hurt her any more.

“Can I... hang around? Tonight?” Sara asked quietly, toeing the floor, refusing to meet his steady gaze. She knew he felt the ache of an un-given hug but couldn’t quite bring herself to give it. Oliver nodded steadily, standing with a glance at the clock. Diggle and Felicity would be here soon.

“Of course. I’m here. You just need to tell me what you need.”

Sara nodded almost shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before wrapping her arms around herself.

“Promise me you’ll tell me what you need.”

Sara bit her lip. She wasn’t in the promising mood lately: she never made promises she couldn’t keep. By the look in Oliver’s eye, she wasn’t going to escape that immobilizing gaze until she did. 

“Okay. I promise.” Oliver inclined his head insistently and Sara lightheartedly rolled her eyes at the gesture. “I promise that I will tell you what I need.” She held out her hand, gently inviting connection.

Oliver nodded, grasping Sara’s hand firmly, gratefully. He knew that this contact was a gift, was Sara literally reaching out of her comfort zone, for him. It was Sara making her best attempt to bridge this newfound gap. He felt grateful. She was hurting, but she was still trying. 

Sara Lance never gave up so easily.


	17. I Can See Widows and Orphans Through My Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sara sees the video of her without a soul, but Oliver just wants her to know that it isn't her fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This directly references the scene in the show, (just as an fyi) 
> 
> Title: The Cave, Mumford and Sons

“I don’t remember hurting those people.” Sara murmured, eyes fixated on the screen.

The computer was replaying grainy security footage from an alley. A young woman ambushed by two men while taking out the trash behind her place of work. By the yellow uniform and red hat, it looked like Big Belly Burger. Sara launched into frame, lifting and tossing the first guy by his throat like a ragdoll. The second creep rounded on her with a knife, which Sara quickly took possession of with a slice at his throat before jamming the knife into his chest four times. Without hesitation, Sara had dropped the corpse and rounded on the woman, hands wrapping around her throat.  If the police hadn’t rolled in at that moment, Sara would have killed the poor girl. The would-be victim.

“Felicity, what did I say about watching those videos?” Oliver sighed, walking into the room, back from patrol.

“I’m not a child, Oliver. Felicity isn’t my babysitter.” Sara protested. “I have this… gap. I don’t remember these things. I want to. I need to know what I did.”

Felicity glanced at Oliver, slightly apologetic, as if saying  _ hey, it’s Sara. What’re you gonna do? _ Oliver knew Felicity was right but still felt annoyed.

“You’re upsetting yourself over nothing, Sara.” Oliver sat his bow in its cradle noiselessly. 

“It's not nothing, Oliver! I killed people. I raided a nightclub.” She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, clutching as if she was trying, and failing, to hold her pieces together. “My victims deserve at least to be remembered by their murderer.” 

Oliver and Felicity shared a pained look. They knew arguing with Sara about this was futile. The guilt of her actions had always weighed heavily on her.

And honestly, Oliver couldn’t find himself really blaming her. He couldn’t begin to imagine what he would be feeling right now, how he would cope with the knowledge that he’d killed so many people with his bare hands but wake up not even remembering it. He’d probably blame himself too.

“I know you don’t need a babysitter, Sara. You’re sitting here because sitting at home gets boring. Felicity just happens to also sit here constantly.” Oliver assured the woman, hand resting on Felicity’s shoulder. Sara felt thankful he used  _ boring  _ instead of  _ mind-numbing to the point of resorting to self-harm to double check I’m actually real  _ in front of polite company. 

“Are you sure I don’t need a babysitter?” Sara responded wryly. Picking a fight was the best way to hide how bad you were hurting, Sara knew. The helpless look in Oliver’s eyes told her he knew what she was thinking. “Laurel watches me do pretty much everything. Sleep. Eat. I had to throw the toilet roll at her head for some privacy because she would not let me go to the bathroom in peace.” Sara knew that at first it had been Laurel making sure she stayed alive, and now it was Laurel making sure she  _ stayed alive.  _

“Yeah, well, Laurel isn’t exactly all there right now either.” Felicity blurted, cheeks immediately reddening. “I didn’t mean that she’s crazy. I don’t think she’s crazy. I just mean that this doesn’t feel real. Like, you were really, really dead. Completely dead. Gone. I helped clean your corpse! It’s just really weird seeing you not dead after that. Sometimes when I just look at you, I feel the urge to reach out and touch you to make sure you’re real and standing there. Or like I’ll come down here one day and ask  _ where’s Sara _ and everyone will look at me weird and say like  _ what do you mean? Sara’s been dead for almost two years now. _ ” Felicity realized she was babbling and forced herself to pause amid her swirling thoughts. “3.2.1. Okay. I just think that Laurel is worried she’ll blink and you’ll be gone again, or that she’s dreaming or something.”

“Some things never change.” Sara mused.

“Yeah, it’s kind of comforting, isn’t it?” Oliver nodded at Felicity with a small smile. “There’s always at least one constant.” Sara nodded, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, struggling to look at Felicity, who shone as bright as the sun in the darkness of her life. 

“I know everything seems… difficult… right now. But it will get better.” Oliver tried, after a moment of silence not broken even by the tapping of keys.

“That’s what Laurel says, too.” Sara whispered, almost sadly. “But I’m not so sure anymore.”


	18. The Path To Heaven Runs Through Miles of Clouded Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show doesn’t really have specific days for these episodes (that I noticed. I also could have missed it.) So im just going my own pace and assigning day names where I need to, just as an fyi.
> 
> (Title: It's Time, Imagine Dragons)

Laurel was notating through several case files, scattered chaotically across the dining room table when Sara rolled out of bed, adorably scruffy. 

Laurel’s heart suddenly ached, but in a good way this time. Sara had a second chance in all of the most beautiful ways: a second chance to find a husband-- or wife, Laurel corrected herself--a second chance to have soft scenes like this, for real. A second chance for someone to see her as perfect and beautiful, and as  _ alive,  _ as she was now. Tousled and tangled hair, t-shirt hanging from one bare and freckled shoulder, brilliant eyes blinking away sleep, irritated by the sunlight. 

Laurel imagined a kiss over a freshly brewed cup of coffee, Sara’s radiant smile as she and her partner broke apart. Laurel imagined Sara  _ happy. _

“Laurel?” Sara’s small voice pierced the vale of her thoughts about the future, optimistic for once. So beautifully optimistic. 

“Yes? Is everything okay?” Laurel spun around in her chair, hazel eyes anxiously searching. Sara felt a stab of guilt at causing her sister undue worry.

“I’m sorry...” Sara hesitated before presenting a steaming mug. “I didn’t mean to worry you, I just made coffee. Didn’t know if you’d had any yet.”

A genuine, warm smile creased Laurel’s face. “Not yet. Thank you.” She lightly nudged a stack of papers, wordlessly inviting her sister to sit. Sara did, sipping her own mug. Laurel felt her smile grow, noticeably enough for Sara to look at her questioningly. 

“I’m sorry. It’s just... you’re drinking coffee.” Laurel sipped slowly, trying to avoid the whole truth.

“By myself?” Sara asked, a small smile tugging painfully at her lips before shrugging. “What can I say? Can’t go without coffee.” She swept a hand loosely at the random assortment of case files. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, yeah.” Laurel almost looked startled. “I wasn’t really doing anything too important, if you want to do something...”

Sara huffed. “That’s not what I meant.” She replied sternly. “I’m genuinely interested in what you’ve been up to. It’s... been a while.”

“I’m just brushing up on some case files, taking some notes.” Laurel replied nonchalantly. “Maybe drafting some rough strategy ideas for a few cases. But it’s 6 am on a Sunday, so I’m not thinking too hard.”

Sara chuckled. Laurel Lance, always trying to downplay herself. “Okay, Miss District Attorney.” 

It was Laurel’s turn to roll her eyes. “ _ Almost  _ DA.” She corrected. Downplaying herself again.

“Still.” Sara replied. “I’m proud of you.”

Laurel felt stunned at the admission. “ _ You’re _ ...”

“Yeah, I know.” She interrupted. “But I am. I’m your sister, I’m allowed to be proud of you. And I am. For everything.”

“What do you mean?” Laurel asked, setting her pen aside and focusing on Sara in her confusion.

“For everything, Laurel. For taking care of yourself when you shouldn’t have had to. For pulling Dad out of a bottle.” Sara hesitated for just a heartbeat, but Laurel noticed. “For pulling yourself out. For going to school and staying strong even when it must have felt like your entire world was crumbling apart in front of you. For being an amazing attorney, and fighting to stay that way. For climbing all the way to where you are now. Oh, the places you’ll go.” 

Laurel silently smiled at the reference to their favorite Dr. Suess book. If only they had known as adventure-hungry children where life would take them. It was almost bittersweet. Laurel reached out her hand without thinking, grasping Sara’s. Sara didn’t pull away.

“I’m proud of you.” Sara scoffed and Laurel rushed to finish her thoughts. “I’m serious. Just because you didn’t turn out to be the world-class doctor you wanted to be doesn’t mean you didn’t accomplish anything.”

“Yeah, I accomplished pain and death.” Sara replied darkly, her grip loosening. She was trying to retreat back into her turtle shell. Laurel grasped even tighter.

“Sometimes our finish line just looks different than we expected.” Laurel insisted. “And you haven’t reached yours yet, Sara. You have so much potential. I see it every time I look at you. There is so much good in you. You just have to let yourself see it.”

“I don’t know, Laurel. Especially now....” Sara hesitated, swirling the coffee dregs restlessly. “I really don’t see how I can come back from this. I can’t see any good parts.”

Laurel shrugged, unsure how she could convince Sara. If she could convince Sara. “You  _ care _ , Sara. So much. About random people, people you’ve just seen on the street who are in need. You swoop in like the Guardian Angel of this city's women. You pick people up and help them to see the beauty in themselves, yet you can’t seem to see it in yourself.” Laurel sighed, pausing to collect her thoughts again. “You are a natural leader: maybe one day, you’ll be in charge of a team of people who help others. You have such a big heart. And I know that’s why all of this is tearing you up so much. But you can’t let it. Because if you’re gone, who else will there be?”

Sara’s jaw clenched as she swallowed heavily. “You.” The word was choked out. Laurel felt her heart drop.

“You’re still the Canary, Sara. The  _ real _ Canary. I wasn’t trying to replace you. I was... sad. And angry. So, so angry. And I couldn’t drink... not again. I couldn’t let myself fall back... into that. I figured out that punching things made me feel better. It made the anger go away. Wearing the mask... made me feel closer to you, when you were so, so far away.”

“It’s not that Laurel.” Sara sniffled, the sound betraying how hurt she was. “I don’t care if you did want to replace me. I was dead-- dead people usually get replaced. Honestly Laurel, you’re the Black Canary this city needs. The Canary it wants.”

“That’s not true, Sara.”

“You’re a  _ hero _ , Laurel. This city deserves a hero. Not some washed-up, damaged assassin paralyzed by guilt.”

“I’m pretty sure that the women you rescued in the Glades would feel differently.”

“I’m pretty sure that that woman in the Glades I nearly choked out while in a blind rage would feel differently.” Sara replied bitterly. Laurel simply squeezed Sara’s hand again, allowing them to lapse into silence again. She could tell Sara was heavy with thought. “I could never live with myself if you got hurt, or....” Sara gulped. “I can’t do this without you, Laurel. I can’t live without you.”

Laurel looked up to see moisture tugging at Sara’s eyelids. Laurel pulled on her hand, doing her best to force Sara to look at her without actually grabbing her. It worked: ocean blues swimming in their own tide of tears stared back. “You won't have to.”

“You can’t make that promise.” Sara gulped. Sara had made that promise before she’d said goodbye to Laurel that night. Before she’d died.  _ I’ll be around, here and there. Back and forth. I promise. I love you. _

“Yes, I can. Because it’s not just me; I’m not alone. I’ve got Ollie and Digg and Felicity and Thea watching my back.” 

“All it takes is one mistake, Laurel. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve... had it happen to me.” Laurel blinked slowly, the grief rising in her heart again.

“Listen, Sara. Honestly, I don’t plan to be the Black Canary forever.”

“Really?” Sara looked puzzled, if not a little glad at the news.

“No. If-- and this is a big if-- I ever make it to District Attorney, I’ll hang up the mask eventually. Because you’re right-- I’m a  _ really good  _ attorney.” Sara snorted, wiping her eyes with the back of her free hand. “There’s going to be a day when I have to hang up the mask. It’s not sustainable. Ollie can be the CEO or the Mayor or whomever  _ and  _ the Arrow, but I can’t. There will be times when it becomes a conflict of interest. I can’t excuse myself from court. I don’t think I can run on two hours of sleep for the rest of my middle-aged life. I barely can now. And besides-- I want to find somebody. A guy that I can afford to have no secrets with, you know?”

Sara nodded, her sad frown flickering on the edge of an emotional smile. 

“I know it’s dangerous, Sara. At the time, it felt like the only thing I could do. I knew... that you weren’t coming back and I felt so empty. The city felt empty. I didn’t know what to do.” Laurel’s voice had shrunk into a desperate whisper, taking her turn to be vulnerable. 

Sara reached out to cup Laurel’s cheek painfully gently, fingertips reminiscent of butterfly kisses. It didn’t help remind Laurel how real Sara was-- instead, it only reminded her how fleeting and scary life could be. 

“It’s okay, Laurel. I’ve found my way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I give a casual reference to her eventual role in the Legends??? Maybe....  
> And also, catch me making Laurel’s eventual death even more heartbreaking casually hah.


	19. There's a Fire in My Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's trying his best to be supportive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever, i honestly couldn't find a transition to put here that I liked. Tell me how this chapter feels!
> 
> (Title: Revolution, The Score)

Sara’s skin was.... Itchy. Uncomfortable. She felt restless all the way down to her bones, every cell ignited with something. Something she couldn't quite identify. Something she needed.

She sipped coffee and tea and water, snacked on fruits and even ate a kebab (she glanced thoughtfully at the grilled meat and vegetables on a stick when she realized this was the first real meal she’d eaten since... being back) that she managed to not throw up. But something was still off.

She found herself fidgeting when she sat or lay down, energy bubbling just beneath the surface of her skin. She’d gone from bone tired to cannon-with-a-lit-fuse in matter of hours, like she’d woken up this morning... different. 

Sara was so, so tired of waking up feeling different.

“Are you okay?” Oliver asked, his presence startling her. 

She mentally berated herself for getting lost in her own head, in her own body, then paused to wonder why: she was in the bunker-- restlessly bored of the apartment-- and completely safe. Felicity was working quietly at the computer and she had known Oliver would be turning up soon. She was completely safe.

“Yeah, just a bit on-edge, I guess.” Sara shrugged. “I woke up with actual energy this morning.”

“You seem... jittery.” Oliver observed hesitantly, trying his best to open honest conversation without making Sara feel observed.

“I don’t know, I feel  _ full _ . Like I’m going stir crazy, only a thousand times worse.” Sara sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it-- everything feels wrong, feels like I... like I’m missing something.”

“Did you drink water?” The suggestion sounded stupid even to his ears; Sara’s raised eyebrow confirmed that she shared his opinion. 

“I’ve drank... I’ve  _ eaten _ . I sleep.” Sara grunted in frustration, throwing her hands up. “I  _ always  _ sleep, that’s all I’ve done. I feel wrong. I feel... caged.”

Oliver’s heart tightened at the sudden emptiness in her voice, the frustration drained to helplessness. Sara Lance, his pretty little bird, always chafed by a cage. 

In hindsight, Oliver reflected later with a small chuckle, some part of him should have expected her to find her way back to life. Not because, from his perspective at least, she’d done it twice before (this time, he’d known that she was gone, for sure), but because death was simply another cage. One obviously unable to hold Sara. He was beginning to think that no cage could hold Sara. That thought made him feel surprisingly happy for her.

Sara’s gaze had shifted, taking in the mannequin that now held her old black leathers, understanding suddenly clicking within her. 

Admittedly, at first Sara had felt a flare of bitterness-- they’d interred her like that, in the clothes that she had died in. The clothes that painfully embodied her darkness, the suffering she’d endured and inflicted; bad memories neatly stitched into the tight fabric. They’d taken her jacket-- the only vestige of warm, comfort, and love that she’d had-- and tossed her in her old grave.  Her body wasn’t anything Oliver hadn’t seen before: hell, nothing Laurel hadn’t really seen before. And they’d left her to lie wrapped in her suffering. It had felt like an insult, waking up to realize how much everyone had moved on while she’d been dead, trapped as the Black Canary, unallowed to move on for eternity.

But since she’d stripped the outfit, everything had felt  _ wrong _ .

She’d died Canary, she’d been brought back to life Canary, but she hadn’t  _ been  _ Canary.

“Ollie...” Sara's voice was soft, almost filled with awe. With understanding. Maybe she’d finally started to unravel this puzzle. “Can I come?”

“Come?” 

“Out. Tonight.”

“Sara...” Oliver’s tone was one of warning. A  _ please don’t ask, please don’t make me say no _ . Sara seemed to understand the look in his eye.

“Ollie, please. Let me come on a mission.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you... it's that I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. Too soon.” Sara’s piercing blue eyes met Oliver’s and he had to suppress a shiver. She’d always been intense and headstrong, but knowing that barely two weeks ago those eyes had been shut six feet under gave her gaze an extra punch.

“You made me promise to tell you what I needed. I  _ need  _ this, Ollie.”

Oliver fidgeted for a moment before sighing. “Okay. But--” Oliver’s voice was firm as Sara bit a grin off her lips, “-- you have to promise me that you wont push yourself... if something feels wrong... promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I always do.” Sara grinned genuinely for the first time, a little flicker of the woman she used to be finally peeking through the blinds of her pain.

Oliver realized later that even if he had known what was coming, he’d still say yes a thousand times just to see that smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the slow updates... college is hard haha :')


	20. Somethings Burning In My Soul [I Let It Lose Control]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, but cannon typical, {like, straight from the episode, but just in case :)! )
> 
> (Title: Oh What a Life-- American Author)

Sara wanted to think Felicity scolding Oliver about inviting her mother to the city was cute, endearing. Their embarrassment at not realizing that the comm lines were open to the whole team should have sparked some kind of chuckle. Instead, Sara just honestly wanted everyone to shut up.

“I don’t remember there being so much chatter on these missions.” Sara replied dryly. Sara also didn’t remember there being so many  _ people _ on these missions. It used to be her. And then it was her and Oliver. And now, it was apparently her and Oliver and Diggle and Thea and Laurel.

What the hell was Laurel doing out here?

Laurel sidled up to her, leaving Thea’s side. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I need a little normal.” Sara felt herself grin. “And for me? This is the kind of thing that passes.”

The black leathers were all that Sara could remember. They felt even more like a second skin than before. Sara felt at home in her leathers in a way she couldn’t explain or even begin to understand herself.

She could almost convince herself that everything was going to be okay when she was wearing them.

“I hacked the security panel but it needs to be accessed from the inside.” Felicity interrupted. “Only problem is that the building’s interior is protected by pressure sensitive flooring. Which means Chatty Cathy, you’re up.”

“Chatty Cathy?” Oliver asked.

Sara felt something in her chest at their couple’s squabbles. She just couldn’t figure out what.

“Your new code name.” Felicity replied bitterly. “The only one appropriate enough I could think to use in polite company.”

Sara noticed that the entire team was grinning. “Once the loading dock’s doors are open, you’ll have 90 seconds to find the manifold and get out before men with guns show up.”

“You know, when I get back…” Oliver threatened idlily before launching into the building.

Sara found herself trading grins with her sister. Oh, how good it felt.

The doors opened and the entourage rushed in purposefully, silliness put away until the completion of the mission. Sara thanked whatever powers that be for that.

“Sure it was a good idea to bring Sara along?” Thea asked, lagging behind Diggle and Oliver.

Laurel didn’t brake her stride or spare a glance for the red woman. “She’ll be fine.” Laurel tried to believe it herself.

“Somethings wrong!” Felicity warned, sounding panicked. “The security cameras are coming back online!”

“I’ve got it.” Oliver smoothly shot out the cameras.

“No!” Felicity’s voice trembled slightly. Everything was going south remarkably quickly, even for them. “Don’t you understand if Kord upgraded their security, they probably improved their response times!”

Sara raced among the shelves, focused on the mission despite all the details slowly crumbling. They had to find the tech and get out—pausing to stress would only waste valuable time and potentially jeopardize the mission. Thea followed her lead, falling into an easy rhythm checking the shelf opposite Sara to shave down time and improve detail detection.

“Wait, I think this is it!” Alarms blared as if on cue with Thea’s retrieval of the device and armed security guards rushed in, guns blazing.

Both women found themselves ducking around the shelf for cover. But Sara also felt something nearly imperceptible shift inside her as the bullets clattered.

With a hefty kick, Thea managed to knock one of the shelves over on a guard. The other man scrambled in the opposite direction, making a key mistake: assuming there was only one enemy. As the guard came close to rounding the corner of the shelf she had taken cover behind, she pulled herself to the top, dropping on top of the man.

She should have just knocked him out, having taken him by surprise. But something inside her felt like it was on fire. Sara felt like she wasn’t in control of her hands when they started beating the guard. The innocent man. She couldn’t stop herself until… until what? Until this hunger went away?

What was happening?

The crimson blood spurted across the man’s face as his nose shattered and it dripped from his lips, parted in terror and pain.

“SARA!” Oliver’s voice echoed in the loading bay.

Despite the obvious volume of his call, Sara didn’t stop. Oliver’s voice drifted to her from across a fog-covered sea, faint and far away. She wasn’t even sure it was actually there and not some auditory hallucination.

Laurel’s shrieks snapped her back, yanking her into reality. “Sara!”

She felt like you do when you wake up after passing out. Disoriented. Confused. Some time had passed but there was no concrete way for her to measure it for herself, or what had happened during that time. Her own body was not where she remembered it being, covering behind the shelf. New people had arrived at her side, and, in this occasion, underneath her.

How long had they been trying to call to her?

She looked at the unconscious man. What had she done?

What had possessed her?

Why was this the most emotion she’d felt? Why did this feel good?

Laurel’s firm grasp on her arm grounded her, its insistent tugging pushing her into gear. Her mind felt like it was buffering. She let Laurel guide her, nearly stumbling over her own feet.

Sara felt so… numb.


End file.
